


Hunter

by UnwelcomeStorm



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Crossover, Gen, misc characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 49
Words: 74,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnwelcomeStorm/pseuds/UnwelcomeStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taylor Hebert dreams of the Hunt, but her dreams are leaking, and Yharnam's bloodtinged madness is escaping. Can Taylor finish her Hunt--or can the heroes stop her--before all of Brockton Bay is drowned in it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Worm/Bloodborne cross, and it will be presented in a somewhat unusual format: chapters are not posted chronologically, and not from the same POV. Be sure to check the month at the top of each update, to get a feel for when the chapter is occurring.

**Sophia (1)**  
January

_Merchants. It's gotta be._

That's what went through Sophia Hess's head when she looked at Hebert, sitting several desks away and not even pretending to pay attention to her schoolwork. The girl was a trainwreck-in-progress, every day a little more disheveled, a little less together. She was coming off of the tracks in slow motion. Sophia watched Hebert lick her lips for the hundredth time that day, watched eyes with too-small pupils dart towards the clock mounted on the wall. Sophia had watched Hebert a lot, this past week. She had to, now.

There was something _weird_ going on with Hebert, one that couldn't be explained by whatever drugs she'd turned to.

That prank last week had been the tipping point. They'd gone through a lot of work to remind her of what a wimp she was. And... yeah, maybe locking her in with all that rotting shit was a bit much. Maybe spraying that sports bottle full of blood through the locker's slats was more than necessary. But, shit, it was just a prank. If Hebert had any spine at all she'd have gotten out of it, or taken the clue-by-four and left school altogether. But she hadn't done anything, so really, it was her own fault.

Leaving her there overnight hadn't been part of the plan. That was an accident. Sophia had meant to tell a janitor sometime after third period, but there'd been a call on her PRT phone and she'd had to leave. She'd texted Emma, but either it hadn't gone through, or...

Well. Either way she'd gotten a call around midnight.

_Soph! I thought you were gonna tell someone!_

_What? Emma, what the hell? What's going on?_

_Taylor's dad just called. She never came home._

_Oh._

_You DID get her out, right?_

_I told YOU to do it! Oh, shit._

A prank was one thing. Someone dying of dehydration or infection was entirely too much. Especially if she still had Sophia's fingerprints on her. Sophia slipped out of the house and into Winslow as fast as her shadow state could carry her. She reached Hebert's locker inside of an hour, swallowed the rise of gorge from the stench, and tapped on the metal door.

"Hey, Hebert. Comfy? Did you decide to take a nap?" No response. She must have fallen unconscious; that was convenient, Sophia could drag her out of there and dump her somewhere. There was some newly-taken E88 territory fairly nearby, she'd probably be fine there. And if she wasn't, well, that wouldn't be Sophia's fault. Sophia reached forward, phased her hand into the lock, and undid the latch. And that's when things went very wrong.

Because the locker was empty.

Not completely empty, there were the tampons and the pads and the soaked tissues and everything else. And there was a clear compression in the shape of the mass of soiled garbage pressed to the back of the locker, where Hebert's rake-thin body had been. But Hebert was gone. That was weird, and Sophia had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, wondering if Hebert had beaten the odds and Triggered. What a pathetic way to get powers that would be. Just another item on the Shit that Hebert Doesn't Deserve pile.

With nothing else to be done for it, Sophia went home.

The next day, the janitor pulled a screaming and flailing Taylor Hebert out of her locker before first period. Sophia felt the little hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It didn't make sense.

Hebert didn't make sense. Not anymore. She had the fidgety energy and cracked lips of someone needing a fix, but if anything she actually looked healthier now. She was more than jumpy, she was strung tighter than piano wire, and Sophia watched the ways Hebert's fingers would twitch towards her belt, at her sides. Sophia knew that twitch. She had one much like it, on rough days when she wished desperately that she could have her crossbows with her at all times. She'd start to reach for the holsters and stop almost immediately, because they weren't there. Sophia told Emma to back off, just for a week or two, to let any attention on Hebert die down. And to let Sophia watch her, because there was something weird with Hebert now, and it might be weird-dangerous.

Of course, Emma wasn't one to be still for long.

"Ugh. God, Hebert, you reek. Do you even know what a shower is?" The focus of Emma's barb went still, not quite pressing herself against the wall. A few of the girls in Emma's orbit drifted nearer, giggling.

"Maybe it's puke. I bet that's why she's so skinny. Stickers her fingers down her throat and horfs."

"She probably sticks other things down her throat. Or lets someone do it to her. How else is she gonna get her next fix?"

"Not with money. She's been wearing the same clothes all year. I bet they've been just marinating in her stink, I doubt she ever washes them."

The circle of girls continued, with Emma holding court, and Sophia standing back, just this once. The hairs on her neck were standing up again. Because Hebert did smell. A sweet, coppery smell, not quite hiding a more musky odor, like she'd been rolling around with dogs. And under that... Sophia took a sharp breath as something in her brain pulsed, twisting like the start of a migraine. It was the faint scent of the color of moonlight, so completely impossible to think of because it didn't exist. Sophia took a half-step back, involuntary.

Hebert licked her dry lips again. "Beasts," she whispered, with the odd cadence of someone repeating what they've heard. "Beasts all over the shop."


	2. Chapter 2

**Taylor (1)**  
January

 

There had been no vision, the moment that fate turned on its axis. No great plan to be a part of, no blessing of a higher power. There was comfort, of a sort; more the absence of discomfort than anything. For a while, there was no pain, nor shame, nor crushing blackness. There was the hazy, double-vision sort of familiarity that comes from deja-vu, there in sleep and silence. There was a promise, though I do not remember it. There was the utter surety of not being alone.

> Good. All signed and sealed.

And, eventually, there were flowers.

White flowers, luminous in a misty grey sunlight, and covering nearly every inch of bare earth; that is what I awoke to. I was lying on a gentle hillside, near an old wrought-iron fence and a crowded row of weathered stones. For a long time, I didn't bother to get up. Relief flooded through me, sank into my bones, and I heaved a great sigh. Anywhere would have been better than where I had been, last I knew, but here--wherever this was--was absolutely steeped in serenity, and I felt more welcome lying here in the dirt than anywhere I had been in a long, long time. Maybe it was the flowers. They smelled like moonlight.

"Ah... good hunter. Are you well?"

I startled, raised my head from the heather and blooms. There was a girl here, pale and perfect in every way that I wasn't, wrapped in a fancy dress and a warm shawl; both looked handmade. She settled down on the ground at the same time that I sat up, and folded her hands demurely into her lap. Sleep evaporated in an instant and I stared: her hands...

"I am a doll, here to look after you in this Dream." No wonder she looked so at peace. Her face, like her hands, was made of fine porcelain, or perhaps a very smooth, polished pale wood. I couldn't see how she managed to move her mouth so smoothly, but her fingers were clearly joined by subtle gears. She stood, and I scrambled up as well. With a quiet glance to make sure I was following, she began to pick her way out of the flowers and towards a rough path, leading to the fence I'd seen earlier.

"Countless hunters have visited this Dream. The graves here stand in their memory," she said, keeping a steady pace and passing through a large gate, "the Little Ones tend to them, and to the hunters that visit this place."

Graves? That explained all the stones, but there were so many. "Dream? I'm... dreaming?"

The Doll nodded, and kept walking along the path, a thin strip of broken cobblestones between rows of stacked headstones, overrun by flowers. I saw a building up ahead, a cottage maybe, but the Doll turned from it, and walked instead to a half-rotted tree stump. "I believe they have a gift for you, good hunter... they are sweet, are they not?" I followed her gaze. I could no longer doubt that I was dreaming, because when I opened my mouth to scream at the pale, skeletal, infant-sized creatures crawling from the stump, I couldn't. There was no scream, not even an exhalation. My heart didn't pound. It was the same impotent silence I'd had in nightmares about my mother's death. The Little Ones moaned, mouths open in gap-toothed smiles, waved at me and reached spindly fingers for my clothes.

"I... I want to wake up..."

Please.

_Please._

There was no transition. I was in the misty grey light, and then I was in the crushing dark, with no space between. I heard the chatter of students and the slamming of locker doors. I drew in a sharp, panicked breath. I felt my heart pound.

I smelled moonlight.

I screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sophia (2)**  
February

 

Sophia's powers were a boon, but it was her temperament that was her best asset for her work. Unlike her friends, she had the patience to lie in wait, to spring a trap exactly when necessary. Unlike her coworkers, she had the focus to watch a single place for hours, silent as a jaguar. If there was anything that Armsmaster appreciated about her, she was sure it was this. It was no coincidence that she was assigned the most stakeouts from among the Wards. So she watched.

 

She watched the dark circles under Hebert's eyes get darker. She watched her nervous energy crumble into exhausted resignation. She heard teachers start to mutter to each other about Hebert. Madison reported that she'd stopped taking notes in class. She watched Mrs. Knott's eyes follow Hebert as she left class, face set in a rictus of disappointment. Sophia stepped out from behind a door in Hebert's blind spot, an open bottle of orange juice raised to pour. She watched Hebert pull aw---

 

No.

 

Hebert _tore_ away, a sudden explosive motion that carried her out of range, and she whipped around to stare at Sophia, hand making that aborted twitch to her side as she reached for a weapon that wasn't there. Then she blinked, and ran. A frightened deer once again.

 

Sophia frowned, and took a pull from the juice--no sense in wasting it--before walking away. Deer's eyes don't look so hungry. She had a free evening or two coming up, maybe it was time for a closer look.

 

. . .

 

Hebert lived in a run-down little house at the edge of the Docks, as Emma had helpfully directed her to, and it hadn't taken Sophia long to find a decently positioned tree to wait in with a pair of binoculars. She was lucky that one of Hebert’s neighbors was fond of pines. Any tree was easy to climb, thanks to Sophia’s shadow, but most of them had shed their leaves long ago, leaving bare branches to claw at the bright circle of the moon. So she watched, and waited.

 

Sophia wasn’t entirely sure what she’d been expecting to find. Evidence of a drug stash, maybe, just begging for a not-quite-anonymous tip off to the school and police. Instead, Hebert paced her room, restless. She sat at a worn-down desk, head in her hands. She stared out the window, face tilted up at the moon. She opened a closet door, and stared at the contents within. At some point past midnight, she reached in and withdrew one of her many drab hoodies, donned it, and pulled the hood up over her face. A second followed, this one tied at her waist, and through the lenses Sophia could make out a shape underneath it, concealed. Hebert then opened her window, swung out, and dropped two stories to the ground.

 

Jackpot.

 

Sophia stowed her binoculars, then ghosted out of the tree and after Hebert.

 

She followed Hebert to a dirty-looking convenience store on the edge of ABB territory. The binoculars returned, and she watched closely through the storefront windows, certain of an imminent drug deal. After all, what idiot would go shopping at one o’clock in the morning, in Brockton Bay?

 

This one, apparently. Sophia snorted in disgust. Hebert purchased an armload of cheap energy drinks, popped one open, and guzzled half the can as she started home. Sophia’s disgust increased when Hebert failed to turn around at the sound of footsteps, and laughter. Three men, at least one drunk and leaning on a friend, emerged from a nearby alleyway. Hebert, the stupid girl, let herself get trapped between them and the wall of a building.

 

Sophia stowed her binoculars again, and took her time readying her crossbow. She’d let Hebert get roughed up a bit, before she swooped in and chased off the gangers. Ha, and then Hebert would be indebted to Shadow Stalker. She was sure Emma could think up some appropriate ‘favors’ for the hero to ask of Hebert in return.

 

A grown man’s shriek split the night, and Sophia’s head whipped up to look.

 

The men had drawn back, stumbling, and one had his arm ending in a mangled stump just past the elbow. The drunk one threw a punch, and had his side splayed open by Hebert’s weapon for his trouble. She had a saw, by a loose definition, a great bulky thing with huge rusted teeth, the handle wrapped in soiled cloth strips.

 

_Hell of a bite there, Hebert._

 

The gangers fled, not that Sophia blamed them, but with how much blood they’d left behind she would be surprised if they saw morning. No great loss. She turned back to watch Hebert, who stood silently on the sidewalk, apparently unbothered by her now ruined clothes. Instead, after a moment, she bent down and picked up the severed arm, examining it. She holstered her saw behind her back, then picked up her dropped, near-empty can of energy drink, and held it under the dripping stump, until the hand was pallid and empty. She threw the spent limb away, into the alley.

 

Sophia took a breath, involuntary, and felt a sharp stabbing pulse in her head as Hebert tilted her head back and _drank_ .

 

Hebert was in school the next day, wearing a different drab hoodie. The dark circles under her eyes weren’t so prominent.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

  
**Taylor (2)**  
January  
  
The few days after that were hazy. That's fine. A lot of things are hazy these days.  
  
I know I spent a few days at home, after the school nurse got a hold of me and Winslow called my dad. He'd argued that I'd been missing all night, but I couldn't confirm it. And I was unharmed, just filthy, so in the end it was no harm, no foul. Dad was livid. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to put my fever dreams behind me.  
  
The Doll greeted me when I woke up that night, in the flowers and the heather. When she directed me to pray at one of the headstones to awaken, I didn't question it. I doubt I would have gotten an answer, anyway. I don't think the Dream and its ways are at all strange to her, though I do wonder if she finds it at all comforting. I kneeled at the grave, and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was still dreaming.  
  
I think it was a hospital, or it was supposed to be. There were stained, thin mattresses on raised beds, and ancient-looking jars and canisters rigged into IVs. The whole place smelled like suffering. I tripped over a snaggletoothed floorboard, knocked over a tray of rusted scalpels and clips. I cursed, loudly.  
  
I finally listened to the heavy, heavy tap-tap-tap of claws on wood. The hoarse, panting breaths from a barrel chest. The meaty lick of a tongue over teeth.  
  
I tried to look for a place to hide, but the wolf-thing was the size of a pony, and was approaching from the only entrance. I tried to look away from its open maw, and the scraps of something red caught between its teeth. I really tried not to see the tattered scraps of cloth that still clung to its matted fur, the leather belt still stretched around its waist. I tried to run.  
  
I didn't get very far.  
  
I opened my eyes to the heather and blooms, pressed my hands against the unmarked flesh between my neck and shoulder where the beast had closed its teeth on me. I stretched open my mouth and managed a wheeze too choked by fear to be a scream. The Doll looked over and greeted me, as calm and polite as before. This time, when I found my voice, I did ask.  
  
"This Hunter's Dream is a sanctuary for hunters, a place of comfort and healing." She explained as best as she could. "No matter what happens in the waking world, you are bound to the Dream, and it to you. Do not be afraid, good hunter. You will awaken, and you will hunt beasts. And I will be here for you." She didn't say anything else, though she did cast her porcelain eyes towards the half-rotted stump, where a few of the Little Ones were peeking empty sockets over the rim to watch me. I got the message, and pulled myself up on shaking legs. The tiny creatures emerged in numbers when I approached, starting up that moan and the excited gestures again.  
  
"The, uh, Doll said you wanted to give me something?" That only seemed to excite them further. They jostled for position to hold up several tools, and unbelievably, a pair of guns. Old guns, the kind that you'd find now only in museums. The Little Ones kept stretching each tool--or weapon, more likely--away from each other, and after a moment I understood that I was meant to choose between them. The last thing I wanted was to take any of them. But, the Doll had said, 'beasts.' There were more than that wolf-creature, in the nightmare outside of here.  
  
"I can't choose. Which do you think is best?"  
  
I don't think they were prepared to be questioned, but to the little abominations' credit, they were just as enthused to try as they were about everything else. They jostled and pointed and shoved at each other, and I suppose came to some kind of accord, because they withdrew the shotgun-looking gun and the blunted axe and the edged cane, and held aloft an old flintlock pistol that looked about as trustworthy as Madison, and a handsaw, of sorts. It was a big, ugly thing, with stained teeth as large as the wolf-thing's. So, all things considered, it was perfect.  
  
They even gave me this notebook, as well. It doesn't seem to be anything special, but it's one of the few things I own that doesn't seem to get covered in blood. I started using it as a journal. It's strange, I desperately don't want to remember this place, but I'm terrified of forgetting it. Forgetting things, losing things. That is worse than the beasts. Writing it down helps me remember.  
  
I learned a lot of things very quickly, it felt like. I learned that there were people here, but that they were wrong, somehow. Something had made them wrong. Their arms were too long, hair too thick and unkempt. They smelled like beasts, a little. Like the scent was a bit too stretched out and thinned, like they were.  
  
I learned that they were angry, and armed, and that I didn't like dying. I felt my body get very cold, just before I'd open my eyes to the Dream. I learned that I was wrong, about Brockton Bay. I'd used to think it was a city mired in violence, and filth. I had no idea.  
  
I learned that some people stayed indoors, and covered up their beast-scent with a bitter incense. Only one introduced himself: Gilbert.  
  
I learned about blood. It was everywhere, in that city. Yharnam. I learned, in desperate retaliation, that blood spilled on an open wound could mend any injury, as fast as the most resilient parahuman, so long as I had my own heat and blood in me. I learned where the angry men kept their blood, in bottles with labels, and flasks in pockets, and in the wet spaces behind their ribs. I learned that blood was good, nourishing in a way I'd never felt.  
  
I learned that the blood stayed in the dream, even when I did not. Even when my saw left flakes of rust on my sheets. I learned frustration.  
  
I learned need.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**Brockton Bay (1)**  
January - April  
  
This is how it starts.  
  
A digital woman's many senses pick up anomalies of movement, seen through her dozens of eyes. A few weather patterns change directions, just for a moment, before momentum reminds them of their proper place. She glances at her first and usual suspect, only to find the winged disaster has changed course, far too soon. Dragon has to rescind the alerts when the Simurgh's pattern stabilizes, locking herself into a perfectly circular orbit of the eastern United States. The math confirms that the center point is a city named Brockton Bay, notable only for its high population of parahumans, and the presence of her best friend. People are notified.  
  
A young Asian man goes to work with one arm gone from the elbow. He reports the loss as an encounter with a parahuman, but when he can give no more answers he is declared useless. He will not survive the month.  
  
A body is found in an alleyway, and delivered to the morgue. A young Asian man, his chest opened like a bloom. The coroner reports wrongful death, bottles a few flakes of rust, takes a plaster cast of one of the punctures.  
  
The smooth cogs of an educational institution begin to squeak. Mrs. Knott takes to closing the curtains on every window of her classroom, even moving desks to pin the drapes in place against the wall. Mr. Quinlan spends an hour with a compass and rulers, drawing a perfect circle on the blackboard, with a right-angle triangle within it. He uses a permanent marker. Mr. Gladly gives the same lecture three days in a row, the cadence and inflection consistent. The school nurse takes in a student with a fever, and curses herself for losing track of her needles and tubing before finally finding a thermometer.  
  
The Simurgh breaks orbit, and travels halfway across the world before descending. When the city is lost she travels a straight line back, and re-enters her vigil at the same coordinates she left it.  
  
The coroner spends a long night with six more bodies. There is no more rust, but he evaluates the wounds and finds them consistent with another. The police are notified of a serial killer. They compare the victims and the dates, find that each was at least loosely connected with one of the gangs. They were killed 28 days apart, on the full moon. The police notify the PRT, who promise to handle it.  
  
The next month, there are over twenty bodies. The Wards are briefed, have their patrols at night changed to include three members at once, despite the strain this causes. Armsmaster notes Shadow Stalker's fatigue is beyond expected levels, and asks her if anything is wrong. She says there is not.  
  
He does not believe her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Taylor (3)**  
January  
  
  
I could have stayed in the Dream when I slept, and maybe have been safe. I could have let the pervasive calm of the misty light and moonlit flowers smother me, let it finally extinguish the smouldering restlessness that ran through my veins. It probably would have been the smart thing to do, but I couldn't bring myself to commit to it. And I can't say that I have a very good reason, but at least I have one:  
  
I didn't like the Doll.  
  
I feel guilty about that, but I couldn't bring myself to revise my opinion. She was calm, and polite, and was probably the only being in my life apart from my father that genuinely wanted to help me. She was kind, and considerate. She was quiet, lovely, and good. But she wasn't a person. She smelled of nothing at all. And something about that chafed at me, drove me to find people, real people, to talk to.  
  
I met Gherman, briefly, in the cottage that wasn't a home but a workshop. He was old, bound to a wheelchair, and said that he was there to advise hunters. Hunters, really. People who tracked down and killed not only beasts, but Beasts. He wouldn't elaborate on the subject, but he did show me how to use the gun the Little Ones had given me. There were tools here that I could use to make bullets, ones more potent than what I'd scavenged from the shells and pockets of riflemen in the city. I had to remove the casing, and fill the hollow tip of the round with my own blood, then dip the round into a silvery solution to seal it up again. Quicksilver bullets now, Gherman called them. I liked that.  
  
I met Gilbert, sort of. He was bedridden, taken by some illness, but spoke to me through his window. He told me about how he came to Yharnam, seeking a cure for his illness. He told me about blood ministration. He told me about the Healing Church. I wondered aloud if they could calm my fevered blood. He very kindly gave me directions.  
  
I met the Beast on the great bridge. I wish she hadn't screamed so.  
  
I met Elieen the Crow, when I ran from the cooling corpse with my hands over my ears, and tripped into a ruined passage above the aqueducts. She crumbled some of that bitter resin into a bowl and lit it, to ward off any beasts, and didn't mind when I leaned against her and sobbed.  
  
"You're a bit young for this sort of work, my dear, but I suppose it's too late to back out now. Not tonight, of all nights." Her beak mask amplified her sigh. "You need to prepare yourself for the worst."  
  
"The worst. How could it be any worse? That THING kept screaming and screaming and it sounded like a person, and I couldn't get away." I pulled my hands away from my face, feeling horror lurch in my throat. The Beast had had bones over its face, all uneven like calcified tumors, and when it bent down I'd dug my fingers into the edges and _pulled_.  
  
"Far worse, I'm afraid. You've seen the streets. There are no humans left, now. They're all becoming flesh-hungry beasts." Eileen shook her head. "You'll need to be careful, but be brave, too. You can't hide and wait for morning."  
  
She was right. Even if I did, I'd just wake up here again, sooner or later. I bit my lip. The Beast's blood was still on my face, and the taste was pleasantly tingly.  
  
"You still dream, I assume? Take this, then. You'll find more use for it than I." She pressed a small metal emblem into my palm. It looked like my saw, but thankfully not as sharp. "And watch yourself out there. Father Gascoigne patrols around here, but... he's not been well, of late." She shooed me away, after that, and I guess it's for the best. If I'd had the option, I think I would have hidden there as long as she would let me. I Dreamed, because at least waking up would cleanse the blood from my hair and my clothes. I wish it had occurred to me to ask Eileen what she knew about the Dream, but it's too late for that, now.  
  
Her gift was handy, at least. The Little Ones tugged at my pant legs when they saw it, dragged me over to their stump. They hung the morbid little ornament on a knot of wood, and gave me clothes in exchange. Kind of an odd trade, but the long coat and cowled hat looked like they'd be warmer than my hoodie and jeans, and much better at wicking away moisture. I approved. And I realize now that having a mask, even a cloth one, was enough to make someone bold. It certainly seems to be the case in the Bay. It made me bold enough that I let myself Dream the next night. It made me bold enough that I forgot Eileen's warning.  
  
Soon enough, I met Father Gascoigne.  
  
We did not get along.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Sophia (3)**  
April  
  
  
She'd been wrong. There were not two kinds of people in the world, survivors and victims. There were three.  
  
There were still victims, of course. People who let themselves be victimized, let the world walk over them, let it break them and leave their body behind. People who kept their head down and didn't make waves. People who weren't brave enough to fight back against this screwed up, shitty world.  
  
And there were still survivors. People who did fight back, people who refused to just let the world walk on them, refused to just _let_ bad things happen. Those people weren't cowards, weren't just rabbits waiting for a wolf's jaw. They looked at this screwed up, shitty world, and gave it the finger. It was a nice, simple way of categorizing things. Weak and strong. Winners and losers. Prey and predators. It let you look past all the petty bullshit that people wrapped themselves up in, and get to the real heart of the matter. When it came to it, would you fight back, or would you let yourself be beaten?  
  
Sophia was a survivor. She'd proved it. When that question had finally come to her, she'd fought. She'd watched the same question get asked over and over, to others, and so many of them had looked away. But now, there was a third answer, if only she could understand it. There were victims, and there were survivors.  
  
And then there were people like Taylor Hebert.  
  
She kept her head down, let Emma and her court walk on her, let anything that wanted to hunt her do so. She saw that question, every day, and avoided it. And then out of nowhere, there's talk of dead gangers. There's teeth hidden under her hoodie. There's a girl sneaking out of the house through a second story window. Hebert was a cape. She'd gotten a mulligan on the question, and finally answered it. So it should have been simple.  
  
So why didn't it make sense?  
  
It gnawed at Sophia. It paced in her brain. Hebert was a square peg, and she didn't know why. She'd answered the question, the only important question there was, but she'd given a different answer somehow. Sophia knew it. She had to know what answer Hebert had given. She had to understand. So she watched, and waited. Waited until the moon grew fat again, and started to hang low in the sky. Waited until she found Hebert alone, still in a classroom when everyone else had gone to lunch.  
  
"Did you get bored of me, Sophia?" Hebert was slumped in the desk, her head lolled limp on her neck. Sophia stared. She hadn't heard Hebert speak in weeks, at least.  
  
"I don't think you've shoved me, even once, in a month."  
  
"...no. I'm not bored." Sophia took the desk next to Hebert's, and watched. "Not bored."  
  
Hebert's visible eye rolled back, then front, then fixed to the side, to stare back at Sophia. Her silence demanded an answer.  
  
"You're going out again, aren't you? Soon. Tonight, maybe. Or tomorrow." The stare. The stare. There was a tremble in her brain. "I've watched. Saw you go out. Saw you-- saw you."  
  
"..."  
  
"I didn't tell. What do I care about some dead gangbangers? They had it coming."  
  
"They're beasts. Just scratching and biting... clawing at people. You and Emma, biting and clawing. I smell it on you."  
  
"I'm not a beast!" She was a predator. Not a beast. That was important. It had to be important.  
  
"Maybe." Hebert's eye rolled back to gaze around the room. Sophia felt herself breathe a little easier.  
  
"I need to know. I saw you drinking, one night. That stuck with me. I can't-- I can't understand."  
  
"Ah..." Hebert's too-wide mouth stretched into a smile. "Bless us with blood, hm? Their blood is too thin and weak to be much good. Enough for bruises. Enough to take the edge off. You'll be wanting something stronger, I think." She reached into her hoodie and withdrew a small, labeled glass jar, stoppered with a cork. She held it out on the palm of her hand. Sophia took it.  
  
"Mine. See how it bubbles? I'm getting stronger." The red liquid in the jar moved. It hurt to look at. Sophia looked at Hebert instead, whose smile had vanished completely.  
  
"Don't use it, Sophia. It's meant as a reminder." Hebert gripped her desk for leverage, rose to her feet, and left the room. Sophia stayed where she was. She turned the bottle over in her hands. There was writing on the label, in Hebert's familiar scrawl.  
  
FEAR THE OLD BLOOD  
  
It hurt to look at. It hurt to look at but maybe it would make her understand.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Taylor (4)**  
January - February  
  
  
To this day, Gascoigne remains unique in my experience. It's not that he was a Hunter, because I've killed other Hunters, though he was certainly among the oldest and most skilled of those who Hunted in Yharnam. It's not that he was mad, because I've seen much more madness that ran far deeper than his fevered anger. And it's not the wake of destruction he left, because by now I can say that mangled bodies and mass graves aren't so unusual. If it were any of that, the fear of him would not linger with me as it does.  
  
I found Father Gascoigne by accident. I hadn't been Hunting him, I wasn't pushing past him as an obstacle to be dealt with. I had no grudge against him to settle.  
  
I don't think he mistook me for a beast. I think that he no longer cared. The numerous victims around him seemed to support that; when I happened upon him, he was raising his axe up and plunging it down, over and over, into a chest that no longer resembled anything more than battered meat. There were no more people around to kill, so he kept repeating the act on his last target, unable to consider doing anything else. Until he heard me skid to a stop on the wet stone stairs behind him.  
  
"Beasts all over the 'shop." He stopped mindlessly hitting the corpse, and turned around to face me. There were bandages over his eyes.  
  
I greeted him, and he homed in on the sound of my voice. "You'll be one, sooner or later."  
  
I backed away, raising my hands in a plea. "I don't want any trouble." He started walking forwards.  
  
What made Gascoigne so terrifying was that _he_ Hunted _me_.  
  
I ran. I have long legs, and I'm quick on my feet, so I got a good headstart. It didn't matter. Gascoigne moved with a furious speed and relentless stamina, and more to the point, he had a shotgun. The first spray of shot missed me as I turned a corner, but the second clipped my leg and I stumbled. His axe came down square between my shoulders. I woke to the Dream, of course, unharmed but shaken. When I collected myself, I prayed at the grave, and woke.  
  
I turned at the sound of boots on the street, just in time to see Gascoigne split me from neck to navel.  
  
This was a nightmare, one determined to repeat itself. Any time I left the Dream, he found me. He could smell me, track me through the streets, and every time I fled he ran me down. I screamed, he snarled. I pleaded, begged, cried. He didn't care. It was all just animal noise, to him.  
  
When I finally woke up--really woke up--I screamed into my pillows and pulled at my hair until my hands came away full of my curls. And then Dad knocked on my door and told me that breakfast was ready, and was I planning to go to school today? I did, if only because my brain was too scrambled to think of a good excuse.  
  
Life settled into a new routine. I'd go to Winslow, practically sleepwalking I was so exhausted. I let the teacher's words and the Trio's malice wash over me. And wasn't that a laugh? That those three thought that they were hounding me? That backing me into a corner and making their animal noises at me accomplished anything? Children, playing at beastly cruelty, like it's something to aspire to. Ha. Ha.  
  
At least Winslow was good for one thing. Its bright lights and constant noise helped to keep me awake. At night, I had no such luxury, and I did everything I could to keep myself from sleeping. I started buying those cheap energy drinks. I made pots of coffee in advance, and snuck tupperware containers full of the lukewarm bitter brew to my room, so that my dad wouldn't question. I shoplifted caffeine pills. And any time I faltered, Gascoigne was never far behind me. I fled for weeks.  
  
Eventually, one night, I came to a stop, heaving for breath. I turned to look where Gascoigne was rounding a corner, his breath coming in pants like a beast. My hand found the grip of my pistol. I'd like to say I did it because I found my nerve, that I'd finally taken Eileen's entreaty to be brave to heart. That I'd recognized that Gascoigne needed to be put down, because he would never ever stop hunting me. I didn't.  
  
I only stopped because I could not run anymore.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Taylor (5)**  
February  
  
  
It took a long time for Gascoigne to die.   
  
He was old, and strong, and experienced, and I was young, new, and tired. But while I could be killed, I could not die. Winning was only a matter of time. I just had to learn from him. Learn how he moved, how he would shoot, learn how to dart in and bite with the teeth of my saw, then dance away again in the same breath. Necessity is an excellent teacher.  
  
As much as Eileen had tried to warn me, though, I still wish she had been a little more explicit. 'Not well,' indeed. When I had drawn enough blood from him, he stopped, his axe slipping from his fingers, and I thought that maybe I had won. That he'd come to his senses. I still remember the sound it made, when his skin tore like paper, and all his bones snapped and fused together anew as his hands became talons and fur spread over bulging muscles. I didn't kill Father Gascoigne; he was already dead. The Beast inside him had grown too large, and it had eaten his heart.  
  
When I finally buried my saw in his throat, and slumped down against a chunk of broken masonry that he'd smashed apart not six seconds before... I'm not sure what I did then. I must have taken blood, because I didn't succumb to cold and the Dream. I suppose I sat there, and thought of nothing, until the puddle beneath him had ceased to grow and the rents in his hide had stopped steaming. The evening sun in Yharnam's sky didn't move an inch.  
  
Was this me?  
  
Was Father Gascoigne an omen of my future? Would I be here, trapped, until all I could smell was blood? Was this thirst going to drink _me_ , until nothing of Taylor Hebert remained?  
  
I didn't want to be a beast. I got up, staggered away from Gascoigne's body. I wandered the empty streets, and prayed.  
  
Please, someone help me.  
  
Please, someone speak to me. Remind me that I'm still human.  
  
Someone.  
  
Anyone.  
  
Please.  
  
Can anyone understand me?  
  
I am here.  
  
  
  
  
  
When I woke, when I Dreamed, the Doll was seated beside me. She put her hand on mine.  
  
There was no warmth to her skin, but I pressed her hand to my cheek, and cried.


	10. Chapter 10

**Taylor (6)**  
February-March  
  
I'd had a wake-up call, so to speak. Things could not continue as they were; I would not survive it. I might not truly die, but flesh wasn't important, not really. **I** was important, what made me **me** was important. If I wanted to preserve myself, I had to stop stumbling blindly. As usual, I fell back on an old habit, one I'd learned by example from my mother: writing things down. Get words onto paper, and they'd clear up, fall into place. I tore a few pages out of the notebook I'd been given, and while the originals are gone (and were rather messy anyway), I came back to them often enough I could have recited them in my sleep. I probably did, in fact.  
  
I started with what I knew:  
  
I cannot escape the dream.  
There may be a way out if I go on.  
I need blood.  
Blood makes me stronger.  
Blood is dangerous.  
Gilbert said the Healing Church knows about blood.  
I feel strange under the moon.  
  
The list was depressingly short. The rest was just a few dates that I thought noteworthy-- the first night I Dreamed, the days I found and ended Gascoigne, the three nights I'd actually been too restless and tense to feel tired. The latter, at least, may have explained the last entry on the list. The calendar I'd consulted for dates had the major phases of the moon noted on it. The other list, I'm a little embarrassed to say, stayed blank for too many minutes after I'd decided to start it. It went like this:  
  
Things that make us human  
Routines  
Family  
Helping people  
Doing things you enjoy  
  
I even tried going to the library and looking for books on philosophy, or searching the internet. I almost asked Dad, but I didn't want to answer why I'd wanted to know. Besides, he looked tired. We hadn't spoken much since the thing at school. I remember I stared at that near-empty page for a long time. Was it enough? It had to be enough. I did not want to become Gascoigne.  
  
I did what I could to follow the list. I kept going to school, even when I didn't do any work, and I stopped leaving early when Emma or Madison came around. I kept my eyes on the board, even when spoken to, and eventually my teachers stopped asking me pointless questions about the egg yolk in my hair, or all the glue or juice on my shirt. Sophia startled me a few times, but after a while she just stopped going near. I can't say I was disappointed.  
  
I made sure to spend an hour or so at home with Dad, every night. We ate, or watched television together. Dad seemed to like watching the blank screen as much as the local news. I didn't really see the appeal. News in Brockton Bay is always the same.  
  
I scoured Yharnam, putting down the beasts that still roamed the streets, holding torches and pitchforks and rifles. I met an old blind beggar, or at least I assumed he was blind. He never looked quite at me, even when he explained to me about the bitter resin that everyone seemed to burn outside their doors. The abandoned chapel had a great store of the stuff, he assured me, and would make a good place for refugees. On the other side of the city, I returned to the hospital I'd awoken in, and found the nurse who ran the place. She said her name was Iosefka, and that she'd gladly house and treat anyone I sent to her.  
  
It was a perfect solution. I spent a good week or three, knocking on every door that still had a lamp. I was mostly met with yelled insults, or drunken revelry, but I passed on word of the safehouses. A few thanked me, and I imagined that I could feel the hungry claws of the beast calming. I even patrolled the streets in the Bay, for a night or two, a kept a few beasts from savaging a poor man who'd gotten caught outside too late. I reminded him to light his incense when he got home, before I started collecting some blood for my injuries. I was disappointed, the blood from the gang members hardly did anything. I had to tear up an old shirt for bandages.  
  
By the time March was wearing thin, I felt I'd explored as much of the city as I could, and decided it was time to move on. Gilbert wouldn't leave for Iosefka's clinic, even though it wasn't far away, but he was kind enough to give me some better directions to Oedon Chapel, since the great bridge had been closed. And occupied. He did warn that the gates might be locked, but I'd worry about it later. Before I returned to the Cathedral Ward to check on the beggar, I stopped by to speak with Iosefka, and ask if anyone had made it there. I saw her shadow nod through the frosted pane of glass in the door.  
  
"Oh yes, thank you ever so much. Treatment is going well, I'm happy to say, even stabilized. It's... fascinating, really." She giggled.  
  
"I've still got plenty of room, so... be a dear. Go and find me some more."


	11. Chapter 11

**Brockton Bay (2)**  
April  
  
  
"Velocity to Console, I've got a disturbance at 35th and Stanton, sounds like a lotta dogs. Gonna take a closer look, there's no shelters around here, so it might be an Empire fighting pit. Over."  
  
"Roger that Velocity, be careful. Over."  
  
Velocity bounced once on his toes, then stepped _just so_ and kept going, moving into a sprint as the world around him slowed to a crawl. The sounds of dogs barking and snarling warped to a drone, one that got steadily louder as he approached. The warehouse was definitely not a shelter, even in Brockton Bay businesses didn't black out their windows with paint and boards. And they usually didn't have thugs guarding the doors, but sure enough, a pair of meatheads with no hair and prominent tattoos stood flanking the entrance. Pretty damning already, but not quite confirmation, so Velocity stuck to the shadows across the street and ducked into an alleyway before letting the world resume its normal hustle. If the guards saw a blur under the broken streetlights, they didn't react to it. Velocity settled into a crouch to reduce his profile, and waited for someone to approach the guards. It took nearly ten minutes, practically an eternity, before someone else showed up for the Empire's party. As the thugs opened the warehouse door to admit their guest, Velocity let the world slow a tad, giving him plenty of time to peer through the door and get a good look. As he'd expected, he saw lots of people, lots of shaved heads, and a cleared space in the middle with rust-stained sand. The world sped back up, Velocity shuffled back into the alleyway a bit more, then lowered his voice for the comms.  
  
"Velocity to Console, I have confirmed an Empire dog-fighting ring, 35th and Stanton. Please advise."  
  
"Roger that, Velocity. Get some distance, then resume your patrol route. We'll make note of the location for action at a later date. Over."  
  
Velocity sighed. Not the answer he'd wanted, but not an unexpected one. Thinktank was predicting the next Endbringer strike within a month, and the local Protectorate didn't want to start kicking over anthills until afterwards. In the meantime, as disgusting as it was, a dog fighting ring wasn't a high priority. Keeping an eye on human lives came first, and with the moon out tonight, there was a good reason to be covering as much ground as possible. Before he could start the world slowing down again, the scrape of boots on concrete caught his attention. Velocity paused, not wanting to move when the thugs would be paying attention to anything in his direction. Out in the street, a tall figure approached, their features almost entirely covered by the long, charcoal-grey coat, and the addition of a low-set hat and scarf. Velocity noted the glint of moonlight off of glasses, and the light sway of a long ponytail of dark hair.  
  
_Oh, shit. Tell me I didn't just jinx myself._  
  
"Hey! Who're you? This is a private party, you gotta invitation?"  
  
There was a _click-snap!_ and the oversized handsaw in the figure's hand flipped its handle on a hinge.  
  
_Oh, **shit**._  
  
"Velocity to Console, I think our serial killer just showed up."  
  
"I-- repeat that, Velocity."  
  
"Console, I think this is the guy who was out last month. He's got a beartrap-looking thing and _ohJesusfuckhejustcutthatguyinhalf!_ "  
  
"Roger that, Velocity. Backup is inbound, ETA four minutes. I've got both Armsmaster and Miss Militia coming. If you can secure the parahuman, go for it. Over."  
  
The dogs' barking and howling had risen to a fevered pitch, and through the now-splintered door Velocity could see the Empire members starting to react to the intruder. They weren't fast enough-- nobody ever was. Three more were cut down before someone fired a gun, and the killer _dodged_ , darting to the side in a single step that carried them nearly a body-length. They followed it with several quick sweeps of their saw, blood flying up in great spurting gouts. Velocity moved, the slowed-down blood forming a morbid curtain like red velvet.  
  
_Shit. Okay-- enhanced strength to get through bone so quick. Enhanced reflexes._ Velocity sprinted inside, jumping over a couple of bodies and letting the world quicken a tad, just long enough to deliver a sharp jab to the killer's right shoulder. They stumbled, but their shoulder didn't dislocate as planned, because they brought the saw to bear in another sweep with startling speed. Velocity had to slow the world and hustle to duck under the weapon's arc.  
_  
Enhanced toughness, Brute package confirmed._ Armor was a possibility, but Velocity hadn't felt much padding when he punched the killer's shoulder. Tinkertech could solve that, but the coat honestly looked and smelled like normal wool, with maybe some leather. Not enough on its own to dampen a precision strike at Velocity's speed. He went in for another blow, this time to the knees, which worked better. One of the E88 who hadn't yet cleared out like many of his smarter brothers took a shot at the staggered parahuman, hitting them in the chest. There was a spurt of blood, but the killer got back to their feet in short order and returned fire, with a flintlock of all things. The side of the ganger's head erupted in slow motion.  
  
Sometimes, Velocity hated his power.  
  
He took a lap around the perimeter of the room, which was getting emptier, but still not empty enough. He palmed one of his few Foam grenades. He could tag the parahuman, hope that they didn't dodge, then neutralize the remaining gangers before they managed to shoot the killer dead, followed by Velocity. Another lap, and the parahuman darted forward to butcher another thug. Velocity winced. No, he couldn't wait: he readied a second grenade. He tossed the first, watched the world quicken just for a moment to let the parahuman start to react, then carefully threw the second. With their eyes on the first grenade, the parahuman started to quickstep backwards, right into the path of the second. The canisters burst, expanding into viscous clouds, and splattering across the parahuman's back and legs. _Gotcha_.  
  
Velocity moved, slowing and speeding up as needed to deliver quick punches to the remaining Empire thugs, cracking knees and shoulders to debilitate them without killing them. There were less than a half-dozen gangers still in the room, and he got to four of them before reinforcements arrived. Unfortunately, not his reinforcements. There was a deep groan of metal, and the _shink-shink-shink_ of sharpened edges. Hookwolf emerged from what had to have been the office, already covered in chains and blades that formed a beastlike shape, and growing bigger by the second. Velocity sprinted, getting out of the E88 cape's line of sight as quickly as possible. Hookwolf was bad news, and Velocity didn't have any means of affecting him directly. Once just outside the broken and dripping door, he slowed enough to activate his comms.  
  
"Console, where is my backup? Hookwolf is on scene, repeat, Hookwolf is--"  
  
Gunshots, with the ricochet just barely audible over Hookwolf's shifting and scraping hide. _Oh. Oh no._  
  
The parahuman was trapped by containment foam. Trapped in a room with Hookwolf. The chance of arresting the killer went out the window in an instant.  
  
"Velocity, disengage and get to a safe distance. Armsmaster's ETA is still two minutes out. Over."  
  
"Roger that."  
  
A woman's scream split the night, loud even over Hookwolf's blades. She sounded terribly young. Velocity found a shadowed nook and waited for Armsmaster's motorcycle. Two minutes was an eternity. Hookwolf departed long before that, from the reduced sound of chains and hooks, and the slam of a car door soon after. Velocity took a lap around the block to confirm, and made it back in time for Armsmaster's bike to come to a stop outside the warehouse.  
  
"Velocity. Report."  
  
"Our new killer hit an Empire dog-fighting ring. Brute package confirmed, she took a number of hits and just kept going. Enhanced reflexes, too."  
  
"She?"  
  
"Heard her scream. Hookwolf got her... I had her half-buried in containment foam." Armsmaster paused.  
  
"You contained a dangerous parahuman. Hookwolf wasn't anticipated. Only question now is if she's dead or pressganged."  
  
Velocity grimaced, and followed Armsmaster back into the warehouse. He heard the Tinker suck in a breath at the sight. After a moment he started picking his way through the puddles, towards the mound of stained foam. The parahuman's blood was everywhere, and surprisingly dark, like it was still running through arteries instead of being in the open air. Velocity made sure not to step in any of it, and he saw Armsmaster doing the same. A quick examination of the containment foam ensued. Velocity blinked, then looked again.  
  
"She-- there's no body."  
  
"And the foam is intact, even has an imprint. Hookwolf would have cut her out, for capture or display." Armsmaster's jaw tightened. "Probable Breaker state. The parahuman is still at large until confirmed otherwise."  
  
Velocity felt his throat dry up. "Hopefully she keeps to the pattern, then, and stays quiet until next month." He glanced at the rest of the room. It was practically painted in cooling gore. There had to be close to twenty bodies here. He looked back to find Armsmaster kneeling down, just outside the darker puddle surrounding the foam. A few small bubbles broke the surface.  
  
"...get Console on the line. I want a containment team in here."  
  
"R-- roger that."


	12. Chapter 12

**Brockton Bay (3)**  
May  
  
  
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■

**♦Topic: Serial Killer  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay  
GWilson** (Original Poster) (Verified PRT Agent)  
Posted on April 20, 2011:  
You can see the official notice here [LINK].  
  
The cape is described as tall, female, and wearing a long grey overcoat, pointed cap, scarf, and carrying an oversized saw and a large pistol. She has been described as 'Victorian' in style.  
  
Name and official ratings are still pending, but one thing is very clear:  
  
DO NOT APPROACH THIS CAPE  
  
Current bodycount after last night's sighting is up to 29 deaths attributed.  
**(Showing Page 1 of 15)**

  
**► FilthyXenos**  
Replied on April 20, 2011:  
Jesus Fuck, is the S9 in town? 29 is a lot of victims... how long has he even been around?  
  
 **► EdwardBaccarat**  
Replied on April 20, 2011:  
29 is a lot? Hardly. There have been killers who've depopulated small villages. Still, that's enough to get you attention from the PRT.  
  
More important, who are the victims? If they're villains... *shrugs uncareingly*  
  
Now if they're civilians, yeah, time to get worried.  
  
 **► Regular_Villain**  
Replied on April 20, 2011:  
So what if some Nazi's get carved up? I heard every death has been a bunch of gang bangers. And it's not like Hookwolf hasn't done just as bad to any minorities that cross his path. Seriously, fuck the Empire and their bullshit.  
  
 **► MalburtFaslfaf**  
Replied on April 20, 2011:  
Great, another one. At least I live in another state. Let's hope whoever they are stay in Brockton Bay and gets taken care of sooner rather than later.  
  
Does anybody have anymore information other than "They're a Cape" and "They kill people"? I think people would like to know what they should look for so they can run away in the opposite direction.  
  
 **► StringsOnMe**  
Replied on April 20, 2011:  
  
  
Uses a weird saw thingy.  
  
 **► GARcher**  
Replied on April 21, 2011:  
One of the attacks happened near to where I live, because of how dark it was at the time I can't give a good description but the Cape seemed to wear a longcoat and a hat.  
  
RE: saw thingy  
Put weird on that description, can't tell you if it was made of normal metals or not but I saw him(her?) cutting a guy in half with it, almost pissed myself in fear.  
  
 **► SalmonNoJutsu**  
Replied on April 21, 2011:  
What they don't tell you is that most of the victims are with the gangs.  
  
Good on this Person for getting rid of some vermin.  
  
 **► NoLongerANewGuy**  
Replied on April 21, 2011:  
  
Been digging in guys. Dangerous stuff I've been doing, but rumor and the occasional bit of screen peaking has shown me a few tidbits.  
Source: Somewhere in the PRT-  
Murder Cape;  
Not a murder hobo. showed up in BB, been local since.  
Not S9, kills gangers. concerns of potential recruitment given their last rampage was heading toward the area.  
She. Listed on the news, but reminder Female.  
Full Moon. Seems to be on a lunar schedule. Seems my beast concerns are coming true, it's a werewolf wannabe.  
Victorian era coat, hat, glasses, scarf (?), gloves, pants, shoes. Big ass bonesaw looking thing. Flintlock (?) gun, Tinker tech based off the damage dealt.  
Low Brute (?) took rough hits from Velocity, disproportionately small reaction. Cutting guys up in one swing (having butchered pigs before I can say that that is no small feat for a woman her size and build to do).  
Bullet timer. Enhanced reflexes variety.  
Some minor Mover (?) Velocity said she was dodging stuff funny, not much in details.  
Oh and she's still Wanted on the news after Hookwolf Killed Her! For those joining us Velocity was staking out an E88 fighting ring, Killgore the Murder Chick showed up to the party, people started dying, Velocity tried to deal with her (way to go hero, protect the Nazis of all people in this town), didn't work (didn't become hostile to Velocity? not enough detail), tried again, got her in that Trooper Foam, ran like a bitch when Big Bad Wolf showed up, left her trapped in the foam, there was a death scream, Hookwolf left, rest of the heroes arrived, no body, foam undisturbed, lot of blood. STILL WANTED!  
All I got for now. Think I'm gonna hit the street level, make some contacts in ABB/E88 see what they know.  
Maybe see what I can distill from the Merchants' usual slush of drugged up crap info. Those slugs are everywhere and they see everything, but never can be sure what was their eyes and what was their trip.  
PRT's runnin bit scared on this. Haven't dealt with this kind of crazy person since the Teeth. Hope the Wanted status isn't similar to Butcher's (what Butcher are we on now anyway guys?).  
Possibly related- What's with Shadow Stalker? Been a lot of supposed sightings of her lately at night. That aint Ward patrol time. She was always pretty stealthy; can't imagine why she'd be getting so sloppy now. New cape maybe?  
  
 **► IttyBittyRaspberry** (Cape Groupie)  
Replied on April 21, 2011:  
So, I've got family in the EMTs, right? I managed to get some info about the latest sighting. Cape is female, probably a Brute. She hit an E88 dog-fighting ring a couple nights ago, and killed like everyone inside. Now there's PRT troopers over the whole block, not letting anybody in.  
  
 **► MalburtFaslfaf**  
Replied on April 21, 2011:  
Great, she's female, and she goes out once a month and butchers people. That certainly doesn't paint some conclusions that I'm certain everyone in this thread has already thought of.  
  
Damn my brain, why must it go into the gutter so quickly?  


**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 13 , 14, 15**  
  
  
  
**♦Topic: Bloodmoon  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay  
Bagrat** (Original Poster) (The Guy In The Know) (Veteran Member)  
Posted on May 2, 2011:  
Here's the thread for discussing the killer cape Bloodmoon, located in Brockton Bay.  
  
There's related threads to previous sightings before cape confirmation [Here] and [Here].  
**(Showing Page 25 of 29)**

  
**► IttyBittyRaspberry** (Cape Groupie)  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
Well boys and girls, you know what time it is.  
  
Bloodmoon was sighted again last night, right on schedule. From what I'm hearing, E88 set up a trap and baited it with a public flogging or some sick shit. Apparently Hookwolf wanted a rematch.  
  
You can see some photos of the destruction [here], [here], and [here].  
  
PRt's got the whole area quarantined again. That street is on my way to work, I saw guys in HAZMAT suits still bagging pieces and metal shards this morning. RIP Hookwolf, I'd say you deserved better, but we all know that's a goddamn lie.  
  
 **► Regular_Villain**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
I said if before and I'll say it again. Fuck. Nazis. I don't know about anyone else, but is it as fucked up as I think it is that a serial killer has done more to fix the shit hole we live in than the heroes? Because I'm starting to hope this psycho finds another E88 lieutenant next month. When was the last time Armsmaster took down one of the villains for good?  
  
 **► NoLongerANewGuy**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
It's the violence. That's what she's after. The gangers, always the gangers. Slaughtered those Merchants, but left Prick alive. Made the guy Trigger from the fear, 'course he was trippin balls at the time and couldn't move if he wanted to.  
  
First Hookwolf's dog ring, now Hookwolf, tore up that beat-in the Merchants' were doing but left the one too high to move alive (thanks by the way Slaughter Cunt [their name for her, so don't track me down and kill me, crazy lady], you started showing mercy and they got a new Cape out of that fiasco). In that Dog Ring report she wasn't being decisively hostile to Velocity even though he was trying to subdue her. She's after those that are out to spill blood.  
  
 **► LegendzKohai**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
*clicks links* O_O  
  
Okay. Well. Call me morbidly impressed. Sickened, somewhat nauseous, in fact, but impressed. Just one cape did this? She just walked right into the trap and took out not only Scion-knows how many casualties, but Hookwolf as well? Just...shit.  
  
Also, Bloodmoon, eh? That's what we're calling her? Fits; blood everywhere, attacks only on the full moon. Slasher as fuuuck...  
  
 **► EdwardBaccarat**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
*watches*  
  
Wooof. Straight out of a summer camp murder movie. Ok, personal note, stay far, far away from any E88 territory. Not that it'll help much, but every little bit helps.  
  
*does the Great and Powerful Turtle thing...*  
  
Might need some moar battleship armor.  
  
 **► Caerbannog**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
She some kind of werewolf or a member of the Adepts? Because it is f***ing creepy that she only attacks on the full moon.  
  
Glad she's only going after the Nazis though. Although judging by your reaction's I do not want to click that link. Would not like to become a Neo-Nazi out of pity  
  
 **► SalmonNoJutsu**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
holy shit! The nazi-dog is dead?  
  
Praise the Bloodmoon!  
  
 **► LordOfDarkmoore**  
Replied on May 18, 2011:  
Christ on a cracker, can nothing stop this crazy woman?  
  
I mean, yeah, it was Hookwolf, guy was an asshole, couldn't of happened to a nicer nazi. But she took on Hookwolf! HOOKWOLF! A giant wolf made of swords and shit!  
  
Who's next, Lung?  
  
EDIT: Do we still know if she's using that saw thing of hers?  


**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29**  
  
  
  
  
  
**♦Topic: Monster vs. Wards  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay  
IttyBittyRaspberry** (Original Poster) (Cape Groupie)  
Posted on May 21, 2011:  
What.  
  
The.  
  
FUCK.  
  
Anyone else watching the news? This [THING](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PwHgNxF7v9c) popped up out of nowhere and went ballistic on the Wards, only about a mile from the Rig. Protectorate managed to mobilize and put it down, but last I heard Vista's in critical condition, and there's even some photos of Aegis having been torn in HALF.  
  
Jesus. The Bay is bad enough at night, this happened around noon. What the hell is going on in this city?!  
  
  
**(Showing Page 1 of 15)**

  
  
**► LegendzKohai**  
Replied on May 21, 2011:  
Welp, that's it. I'm done. I'm genre savvy enough to read between the lines. Shit's rotten in the Bay. First the gangs, then a serial killer (who thankfully only went after the gangs), and now this shit? I'm shipping up to Boston, while I still can, and I urge my fellow Brocktonites to do the same. I'll content myself with browsing the threads and watching the news.  
  
I don't know what it is...but...it feels like something's just plain wrong in Brockton Bay. It's just a weird feeling crawling down my spine. It's got me on edge, and I'm not the only one! I go out on the streets, and I see people practically speed-walking to wherever they need to go, checking over their shoulders every minute. It's not safe here. I would say anymore, but it never really has been, either.  
  
 **► LordOfDarkmoore**  
Replied on May 21, 2011:  
The actual fuck is happening to Brockton?  
  
I heard that thing fucking screeching while I was on my lunch break! I'm pretty sure I was halfway across town from that thing and my ears were ringing from that noise.  
  
Do we know if Vista's okay? That kid's been on the Wards forever, pretty sure I was still in high school when she joined the Wards…  
  
 **► MalburtFaslfaf**  
Replied on May 21, 2011:  
God, that damn screaming. What the hell was that!?! What the literal hell is going on in Brockton Bay?  
  
 **► Regular_Villain**  
Replied on May 21, 2011:  
What? Just... What? How did... What? Jesus fuck. What is that thing? It's like... fifteen feet tall. And can apparently tear people in half. Did Nilbog or Bonesaw pay a visit while no one was looking?  


**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 13 , 14, 15**  
  
  
_You are now logged out of ParahumansOnline._  
  
  
"Heeey... Jack, can we take a vacation?"  
  
"Did you have somewhere in mind, poppet?"


	13. Chapter 13

  
**Sophia (4)**  
April - May  
  
  
It was like carrying an ember in her pocket.  
  
It didn't burn, not really, though the vial stayed just a little bit warmer than Sophia's body heat alone should have kept it. But there was no way to not be aware of its presence. It was _there,_ very _there_ in a way that made Sophia's thoughts keep drifting back to it, made her fingers brush the cork once in a while, just to confirm that it was real. She didn't dare let it out of her sight, so to speak. The vial stayed in her pocket while at school, in her belt when on patrol, under her pillow at night, when she managed to sleep. That was getting less often, now. Her dreams had gotten strange, since she first opened it and took a sip--just a small one! or two!--and more often than not she woke with the taste of copper in her mouth.  
  
The Wards were kept busy as always, their patrol routes moved to the 'safer' sides of town, and adjusted so that three people had to wander around at night together. It made things go so much more slowly, having to keep together, because the PRT wanted them to huddle like frightened children. It made Sophia sick. Hiding wouldn't save them. Restlessness lit a fire inside her bones. She snuck out at night more often, not even to patrol, but to _move move move_ and try to smother that terrible/wonderful/oppressive energy.  
  
She started cutting classes. Emma sometimes came with her, and those days were easier to take slowly. Emma was worried about her; Sophia's own mother had hardly noticed. She told Emma that she hadn't slept well lately  (true), and that the Wards were being kept busy (also true), and that she was working on figuring out some personal stuff (still true). She said that when she did, she'd let Emma know what she learned (very true). She promised. Emma was placated, and bought a round of ice cream. It tasted like pennies.  
  
Armsmaster was less easily convinced.  
  
"Shadow Stalker, a moment."  
  
Sophia frowned, but adjusted her mask a bit and turned to face him. Patrol didn't start for another 30 minutes, but she was suited up and ready, unlike Clockblocker. "Yeah?"  
  
"Your monthly one-on-one review is up. Please accompany me." No wonder he looked vaguely annoyed. Sophia wondered, not for the first time, why he didn't just delegate these little meetings to Miss Militia, if he disliked being pulled from his tinkering so much. They strolled to the nearest closed-off space, a tiny office that had been adjoined to the Wards' commons area for exactly this purpose, to save on time spent traveling to Armsmaster's personal office. It was basically a closet, with a table and two chairs, for the short performance reviews every Ward had each month.  
  
"You haven't had any infractions for nearly a month, Shadow Stalker. I am impressed and pleased with your behavior." A pause.  
  
"However, I did get a report from Winslow that you missed classes yesterday..." Only yesterday? Blackwell wasn't stupid enough to sell her out completely, then. "...and I have noticed signs of fatigue from you. It's beggining to affect your accuracy and performance averages." Another pause, and this time his voice had more inflection to it, like he was stepping off script. "Are you alright, Shadow Stalker?"  
  
"Yeah," no "just haven't gotten as much sleep as I'd like lately, my little brother got a new CD player and he's been playing it late at night." He stopped that when I snarled at him. "I cut class and went home for a nap." All those eyes in the walls were giving me a headache anyway.  
  
He was quiet for a long moment. Sophia took a steady breath, and--  
  
She could smell him. It was too faint in the hallway, but here in this enclosed space, she could smell him. Could smell _IT_ on him. The blood. Taylor's blood. She could smell it. He'd been near it, recently.  
  
Why? How?  
  
_Where?_  
  
Had Armsmaster been speaking to her? Had he asked her for it? Had he gotten the answer that Sophia _needed_ to know? No. No, that couldn't be it. The vial in her belt's pouches was hot as a brand.  
  
"Well... do not make a habit of it, Shadow Stalker. If you're not feeling well, you can always get a checkup in the medical lab, downstairs."  
  
"Yeah, I know. We done? I can send Clock in here next, if you want to get his little meet'n'greet out of the way while you're here." He did. But Sophia felt his eyes on her long after she left the room. So she kept her shoulders squared, and played nice with the Wards. And she waited.  
  
She was a patient hunter. It took nearly a month.  
  
It was the night of the full moon, and tensions were high. The E88 had been much more active than normal, and Shadow Stalker had seen some of the results of Hookwolf's increasingly violent outbursts. Someone had called in about seeing a large number of Empire gangers congregating, and the Protectorate was called out to answer. The Wards weren't included; it was a full moon, after all. They knew what that meant. And Sophia knew that this was her best opportunity.  
  
She ghosted through the Protectorate building, Armsmaster's own invention of electrical-sensing lenses allowing her to snake between groups of wires in the walls. She'd mapped out where the visible cameras were, and she phased through walls to avoid their sight. She'd practiced for this. She'd long ago narrowed down the blood-scent to Armsmaster's workshop, which normally would pose a problem: Armsmaster had stuffed so many devices and tinker gadgets into the walls, ceiling, and even floor that using her power inside was nearly impossible. There was only one thing he hadn't touched: the door. Sure, he'd probably replaced the lock with one of his own, or reprogrammed the security in it. But it was a sliding door, retracting into the wall once opened, and he hadn't fitted devices to the middle of it. There, between the mechanisms to retract it and the lock on the opposite side, was a space without wires, only a foot wide. Sophia tensed, phased out, and slipped sideways through. She'd practiced for this.  
  
Armsmaster's workshop was tiny, oddly so. Like all the space inside had been shrunken; even the ceiling was low enough that Sophia had to wonder if the tinker had to slouch to move around. There were shelves full of tools and bits of armor and weaponry everywhere. And there, in a sealed glass container, in the midst of an array of what had to be sensing equipment...  
  
Taylor's blood was being kept suspended, held in vacuum by energy fields, and it formed a liquid orb a foot across. It rippled when Sophia approached, droplets stretching up and falling back to the sphere, and for a moment she thought she saw  
  
something  
  
there.  
  
She got as close as she dared, and eyed the suspended promise of salvation. She couldn't phase through the energy fields, and couldn't lift the container up or even touch it, lest she leave prints that the master tinker could find, even with her gloves. So close. _So close_ and thwarted. She gnashed her teeth.  
  
A hand, tiny and bleached-bone white, reached up over the lip of the container's stand. Then another. And another. Heads followed, grotesque and emaciated, with gaping eyesockets and open jaws, all in complete silence. A few of them were wearing tiny hats, like baby bonnets. Sophia felt a laugh bubble up from her throat, unsteady and high-pitched.  
  
"Eehee... ngheehehe..."  
  
The creatures beckoned, but she couldn't get any closer. One waved its arms through the energy field, trailed skeletal fingers through the blood. Another pointed at Sophia's legs. No, not her legs. Her supply pouches.  
  
"Eheh... eheh heh..."  
  
She'd packed mason jars in them, taken from her mother's cabinet of canning supplies, long dusty and neglected. She reached for a pouch and removed the empty jar, and the creatures' motions grew energetic. Sophia's blood was pounding in her ears, she could see her pulse behind her eyes. She offered the jar to the creatures. One took it, then passed it to another, and they daisy-chained the glass jar through the field and into the floating orb. When they passed it back to her, the orb had diminished, and her mother's canning jar was filled with a shade darker than crimson. Sophia had three more jars.  
  
The Little Ones were happy to help.  
  
  
  
  
  
Night turned to day, and back. Again, and again.  
  
_Was she awake?_  
it hurts  
Her phone was in her hand. There were 30 unread messages. Cars honked their horns, and she could hear people murmuring nearby. Could hear their breath sounds. Could hear their pulsing hearts.  
  
_Was she awake?_  
my head my body  
"Hey! Hey... Stalker? Stalker." Fingers snapped. She saw Aegis peering at the eyeholes of her mask. She smelled his nervous sweat.  
  
"Stalker, we've... we've been looking for you. Are you okay? You need to come with us, alright?" Vista. Hanging back. Smelled afraid.  
teeth on my heart  
"Stalker..." Aegis. He took a sharp breath, still looking through her mask, at her. Her vision jittered, unable to focus on him. Her eyes felt strange. The light was wrong.  
  
"Clock. Call the PRT. Now."  
my blood is on fire __  
Was she awake?  
  
"Uh... shouldn't we just--"  
MY BLOOD IS ON FIRE  
"NOW, Clock." He was backing up. People were pointing. They had cellphones, and cameras, and music players: all that tinny electric hum. She hated it. Anger swelled in her chest.  
  
She _hated_ it.  
  
She could hear the electricity in the phone lines, in the power grid. It was all so loud and _she hated it_.  
  
"Console? We need Armsmaster here, or Miss Militia or-- no, it's Shadow Stalker. Something's wrong with her. We need help."  
  
Her blood swelled. It was in her bones, in her flesh, it was bubbling up through her lungs and threatening to burst her eyes. Her jaw trembled, then opened, saliva collecting on her lip and teeth.  
  
"Yeah, on the corner of 5th and Walnut. Can you get here quick? She's--- she's...."  
  
...  
  
"Oh my god."  
  
She **_screamed_**.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**PRT (1)**  
May  
  
  
"Console? We need Armsmaster here, or Miss Militia or--"  
  
"Clockblocker, what is your status? Are you under attack?"  
  
"No, it's Shadow Stalker. Something's wrong with her. We need help."  
  
"Roger that, Clockblocker, we'll send a van to you. Do you need medical assistance personnel? And what is your location, over."  
  
"Yeah, on the corner of 5th and Walnut. Can you get here quick? She's--- she's...."  
  
Miss Militia heard Clockblocker's voice trail off, and on reflex she pressed her comm's earbud a bit more firmly. Over the connection, she heard a muffled cracking sound, like someone snapping a pencil. A premonition, maybe, or a phantom of memory from a long-distant time caused the hairs on her neck to prickle. That sound... Dread pooled in her stomach, an oily ball of icy adrenaline.  
  
"...oh my god."  
  


  
  
  
  
She heard the screams all the way from the Rig. It was a madhouse.  
  
Civilians were running away from the scene, their screams not drowning out the sirens of the police and PRT squads rushing forwards as fast as they could. Miss Militia immediately saw Vista's handiwork, as the people trying to flee seemed to skip through space as it was stretched, expanded away from the-- from whatever was happening. She was putting as much distance as possible between the civilians and the danger; good girl. Miss Militia abandoned her motorcycle when the sound of heavy impacts got close enough and ran instead, her weapon flickering. Pistol? No. AK-47? No. Sniper? No good vantage point yet. Foam-grenade launcher? She had the ammunition with her already. She prodded her power to form the heavy gun.  
  
And for the first time in memory, her power resisted.  
  
She nearly stumbled, but found her footing quickly enough. Another prod, but her power was reluctant. It formed a high-caliber hunting rifle instead.   
  
_What?_  
  
She sidestepped a pile of crumbled masonry, and finally got a good look at the source of the conflict. Several capes were already on scene, Velocity flickering in and out of view as he bent his talents towards evacuating the wounded past Vista's warped spaces. She saw Assault and Battery falling into their well-established tag-team tactics, Armsmaster fighting in melee with his halberd, Clockblocker frozen in his costume half-lifted into the air, as though he'd been punched by a Brute, Aegis was doing a passable Alexandria impression and providing aerial support against the... the...  
  
Fear is embedded in humanity's collective memory. It's why humans covet light, why they recoil from snakes before they've even realized what they've seen. It's why the edges of the map were shrouded in fog, with the words 'Here Be Monsters' the only warning necessary. Here was something from that fog, something that looked straight through the courage of a mask, looked through the flesh and bones and into the bloody echoes of humanity's memories.  
  
_Here is what you knew was lurking, there beyond the circle of the firelight.  
  
Here is your death.  
  
Here be monsters._  
  
It was not quite three stories tall, but it seemed to loom far larger. It was animalistic in appearance, in the same distorted way a carnival mirror's reflection is still humanoid. Its limbs were too long, it's hands just a little too like hands and not paws, its eyes a little too aware. Its scream was high and desperate. It was a human girl's scream, birthed in a throat framed by too many teeth. Miss Militia's rifle flickered, and switched to a larger, more powerful model, and after a bare instant she felt the weight of it reduced to a fraction, offloaded somewhere _else_ in a manner it had never done before. She'd consider the implications later; it's not like she would forget. She raised the firearm, aimed, and pulled the trigger.  
  
The creature was busy swiping a clawed hand at Assault, the cape's powers thankfully redirecting the force to let him bounce away harmlessly. Battery took the opening provided and unloaded her charge on the  (beast) creature, producing a sharp crack to the creature's knee and provoking another horrid scream. Miss Militia's shots impacted the creature's shoulder, to little effect. Its hide was like armor; she switched to armor-piercing rounds, and these produced a short gout of blood with every rapport. After the first, the creature turned its malformed muzzle to face her. After the second, it started its ground-devouring lope towards her position. And the third shot passed right through.   
  
The creature's momentum suddenly cut in half as it faded, turned darkly translucent, and the bullet rippled through it like it was made of smoke. The creature moved slowly, as though through water, until the bullet finally passed through and it faded back into corporeality.   
  
_Mother of God, **no**._  
  
"Militia! WATCH OUT!"  
  
Aegis swooped in, interposing himself between Miss Militia and the creature's outstretched palm. One of its talons speared through the Ward's middle. She was close enough to hear his pained grunt, but if he screamed it was drowned out by the creature's frustrated squeal. Its hand closed around him before he could escape, then lifted him up to its mouth. The creature bit down, hard, and shook its head like a dog. Aegis was snapped in half around its teeth. The remains of his legs dropped like a stone, and the rest of him was tossed away when the **beast** shook its head again, his insides trailing through the air like bloody ribbons.  
  
Unbidden, Miss Militia's power flickered through her weapon once, twice, changing the ammunition it supplied, until it developed modified AP rounds with a white phosphorus payload. She did not question it.   
  
"Switching to incendiary rounds!"  
  
"Velocity, get Aegis off the field!"   
  
"On it!"  
  
"Ahh--AHHHHHH!" Vista screamed, the space all around snapping back with a sickening twist as the rampaging beast knocked her aside with one massive hand. Its talons must have found purchase, because red bloomed on the youngest Ward's costume. Miss Militia cracked off shots as fast as she could, peppering the beast's narrow back and barreled ribcage. Blood spouted, the ichor igniting and sizzling against the beast's hide. It screamed again, this time unmistakably in pain.  
  
_Good._  
  
"Ahaha, didn't like that, eh?! Armsy, you got anything else in that stick of yours?" Assault called out, just before bouncing away from a pavement-cracking punch.  
  
"Not in the halberd-- clear a path! Battery, Assault, tag its knee again in five!"  
  
"Roger that!"  
  
The creature phased again, a few bullets impacting on the building behind it before she could stop shooting. Miss Militia heard an approaching mechanical whine, then the sharp crack of Battery unloading her charge onto Assault, who ricocheted into the creature's knee. It shrieked, stumbling and falling to all fours. The whine reached a fever pitch.  
  
"Move! MOVE!"  
  
Armsmaster's motorcycle raced into view, its remote piloting functions correcting its course by degrees. The engine strained in a way Miss Militia had never heard it, and she realized what Armsmaster was doing a second before it hit. She ducked behind the corner of the nearest building.  
  
The 'cycle rammed straight into the beast, its power core overloading itself and detonating the machine in an earth-shattering explosion. The beast tried to phase out, but the shockwave tore through its insubstantial state, ripping the creature apart from the inside out, and forcing it back to normal, its body in pieces. Its scream bubbled with arterial spray, and its hair and hide sizzled in the flames. Its chest rattled with its breath, once.  
  
All the rest was silence.


	15. Chapter 15

**Taylor (7)**  
March  
  
  
I stalled. I'll admit to it: I stalled for time. I didn't want to venture past the familiarity of Yharnam's labyrinthine streets, or the bitter-scented safety of the blind beggar's cathedral. I knew it was only a matter of time before the restlessness drove me forward, but still. I delayed as much as I could.  
  
I spoke to the Doll, and when I felt scared she'd sit with me on her overgrown ledge and hold my hand. Occasionally she'd ask me about myself, and I'd meander through stories of my life and Brockton bay, with the Little Ones clustered around our feet. I don't think I made for a very good storyteller, but they never seemed to mind. I tried to ask her about some of the hunters who had come here before me, but she just looked towards the clusters of faceless gravestones all around us, and said nothing.   
  
I spoke with Gehrman, and he was more practical in mindset. When I brought him a sketchbook and some colored pencils from home, he drew a map for me, and labeled different landmarks he remembered, and ones I pointed out to him.  
  
  
  
He seemed a little fascinated by the pencils, and I gathered that Yharnam didn't have much in the way of casual art. I promised to bring him a sketchbook, and even some charcoal pencils if I could find them. The Hunter's Dream was lovely, but it had a washed-out, pale look under the eternal moonlight. Some color would do him good, I thought.  
  
Once the map was drawn, I asked him if he had any advice for me. He did, and his wrinkled face creased in a smile.   
  
"Most of the rest of the countryside is beyond the Cathedral Ward, with the grand cathedral lying center amongst the crossing paths. From there, you can go nearly anywhere in Yharnam... but, the Hunt is on tonight, and the gates will be locked and barred." I was sure I could handle a few gates. They couldn't be that difficult to climb over. "But, the grand cathedral's plaza was built overlooking the Old Town, and a number of streets curled down like roots to join them. If you went below the Tomb of Odeon, and explored the old hamlet there, you might find a way past the gates."  
  
I mentioned my thought about simply climbing over the gates, and if anything his smile widened.  
  
"You can certainly try, but I would advise simply taking the low road. It's the perfect place for a Hunter, anyway... the Old Town was burned and abandoned, long ago, for fear of the scourge. Now it is home only to beasts." So, it was Yharnam's Docks, then. I wasn't sure how I felt about finding so many similarities between Yharnam and my home. "And besides..."  
  
He drew my attention back to the map, and tapped a finger on it. "There were tales, and whispers, that one of the Holy Chalices was enshrined in the hamlet's chapel. And rumors that the Healing Church never ventured to reclaim it. The Chalices are the keys to unlock the Tomb of the Gods, where Hunters may partake in communion, and be emboldened by it." His smile turned more sly, more knowing. "Perhaps it would grant you a bit of courage, to face this long night."  
  
I'm sure he saw the embarrassment writ plain on my face, even with the scarf. He'd seen enough Hunters, of course he'd recognize hesitation when he saw it. I thanked him, and headed out. And discovered that perhaps I'd been mistaken about the locked gates, after all. They were a fair bit higher than the ones dotting the city proper, and while I was confident I could scale those, I'd never had much success with so many rifle-toting beastmen around. The cathedral ward's gates had a marked lack of guns trained on them, but for the time being, I added 'climbing gear' to my upcoming shopping list, and backtracked to the Tomb.  
  
As Gehrman had promised, there was more to the Tomb than I'd thought. It was probably intended to be a garden at some point, attached to the beggar's cathedral, because it had curving paths and the dusty shell of a fountain, and a small scenic overlook with a shrine. The latter was occupied by a pleasant man named Alfred, who greeted me warmly and did not once attempt to shoot at me. We spent some small time chatting, and when I asked, he was gracious enough to lead me to the mechanisms that unlocked the way to the Old Town.   
  
It was quite literally below the ornate stone sarcophagus within the chapel, which slid aside to uncover a staircase thick with dust. Inside was pitch black, and it was with no small amount of frustration that I turned back and went in search of a torch and the means to light it. The first was simple enough, as the beggar's cathedral had a number of them lying unused in sconces, but the second took me several hours of increasingly-irritated searching. I eventually retraced my steps all the way to Gilbert's house, and he called out to me when he heard my grumbling near his window. When I explained my situation, he laughed at me (not unkindly) and managed to pass a device through the bars. He said that if I was headed to the Old Town in particular, that it should prove useful.  
  
Typical Yharnam; I asked for a lighter, and was given a flamethrower.


	16. Chapter 16

**Taylor (8)**  
March  
  
  
Gillbert was right, as it turned out. The flamesprayer he'd gifted me was very handy. Beasts, as one might expect, are afraid of fire.  
  
Not all of them, of course. Many beasts are too far gone into madness, or simply too large and aggressive, to retain that primal fear. The ones still haunting the desiccated remains of the Old Town were neither of these, for which I was most thankful. They were more corrupted than the beastmen that prowled Yharnam's streets proper, forgoing all weapons save their own claws and teeth, which festered with caked on filth and left wounds that stung and burned with fever. But without the hats and high collars that were still popular up above, it was much easier to see their faces, to recognize the lines of cheekbones and the occasional cleft chin. A lit torch swung close made them back away in reflexive fear, paws held up to shield their eyes, and the flamesprayer's swath of fire ignited any that got too brave. The bright plumes of light left spots in my eyes, which helped to blur the beasts' features further.  
  
That isn't to say that traversing the Old Town was easy. Far from it; it very quickly became a lesson in patience. Even afraid, the beasts had cunning, and would circle around for an opening, or gain courage in numbers and begin shrieking cries to each other, rallying more hungry beasts. The flamesprayer helped, but it needed a steady hand, and the cobblestones of the Old Town were long since broken and beginning to crumble. It didn't look as burned as I'd been led to believe by Gehrman, nor as abandoned. The main gate had been barred, yes, but nailed to it had been a warning, writ on yellowing parchment. And past there I found beasts, strung up on crosses and burned in effigy. Everything smelled of burnt hair and oily smoke.  
  
Looking back, I wish I had paid more attention to the sight. An entire hamlet, abandoned and reduced to cinders, but no more broken or depopulated than many of the neglected corners of the Bay. The corpses, freshly strung and set alight. The corpses that were _always_ freshly strung, and never burned to embers. I wish I'd given more thought to wonder who could have arranged the display. Because as strange as it is to say this, it certainly wasn't the fault of the crazy man with a gun on top of the clocktower.  
  
It didn't take Durja long to notice my intrusion, and offer me a welcome warning shot. I'd barely stepped away from the pyres when the remains of the balcony's low surrounding wall exploded near me, stone shrapnel flying. I was close enough that one piece grazed my cheek, and another caught in my hair.  
  
" **Hunter! Didn't you see the warning?** " The voice sounded like it came from everywhere, in my confusion. " **Turn back at once. This place is abandoned, home only to beasts, and they are of no threat to those up above.** " I saw a glint, far away, of evening sun on metal, and when I squinted I just barely saw movement on the high tower, perhaps half a mile away. He must have had a low-tech loudspeaker, for his voice to carry so clearly. " **Turn back, hunter. You are not welcome here. I will not warn you again.** "  
  
He wasn't lying. Something I learned very quickly was that Durja does not exaggerate. He also did not subscribe to subtlety: the man had set up a sniper's nest with a gatling gun.  
  
Old Yharnam was a lesson in patience that I would not forget. I could not move over the broken streets recklessly, or I would trip, or misfire the flamesprayer. I could not take my eyes off of the beasts, because they were keen to surround and devour me. And I could not move out of cover, because Durja's aim was everything one would expect from a retired hunter. More than once, I woke to the Dream with my flesh still screaming the memory of teeth, or of being split in two by a hail of gunfire. More than once I sat with the Doll and wondered if I would ever lose my fear of death. More than once I sat with Dad in the evening, watching the television, and wondered which was worse: losing my fear of dying, or getting used to it.  
  
Gehrman would not let me tarry in the Hunter's Dream for long, even when I brought him a kit of pencils and charcoals, and while the Doll thanked me for the sewing materials I brought her, even she started to push me towards the gravestones, saying, "Good Hunter... please, do not be afraid."  
  
When I walked through the gate again, and paused on the balcony overlooking the Old Town, Durja fired another shot in warning, and in promise. I looked out over the winding streets that had become a gauntlet, at the shifting hungry shadows crouched near the buildings. I took a deep breath, and knew that I had nothing to lose.  
  
Don't be afraid.  
  
I ran.  
  
I have long legs, just like my mother, and while I am still thin and gangly, I was much stronger than I had been even a mere couple of months ago; Yharnam has a way of doing that to you. I was stronger than I had been, when I met Gascoigne, and I was faster. I was faster than the beasts, who howled and sprang at me with open mouths with my torch extinguished. I was faster than the crows, who dove from eaves and crumbling walls to snap too-sharp beaks at my heels. I was faster than Durja, who rained down bullets but couldn't turn the mounted gun to track me quickly enough. I ran, and felt my heart pound with life, felt my pulse even in my eyes, and finally felt some measure of control over my life, and my death.  
  
I ran until I reached the shadow of Durja's tower, jumped over beasts startled from sleep, and scrambled up the ladder fixed to the side of the tower. I heard him moving as I neared the top, heard the click of a gun's hammer between my panting breaths, and I called out to him.  
  
"Hey! Hey. Stop. Wait."  
  
I reached the top of the ladder, by now my arms burning as fiercely as my legs, and I flopped onto the top of the clocktower with about as much grace as a fish, and gasping just as hard. I pulled my scarf away from my mouth, and turned my head towards the booted feet that stepped near.  
  
"Huh. Aren't you a bit young to be a hunter, lass?"  
  
Durja made a show of eyeing me, even with the thin strips of gauze over his eyes. There were tears in my coat and my pants, a few of them leaking red, but my saw was strapped to my side, and the teeth were dry. I saw a frown on his scruffy face. "How old are you, hunter?"  
  
"Fifteen." I sat up, and kept my hands away from my gun. I saw Durja's face twist in a grimace.  
  
"...far too young."  
  
He helped me up, then, and introduced himself. Durja had been a hunter, once, but had retired from his duty when Old Yharnam had been burned on the last Great Hunt. He'd spat at the name, and said there was nothing great about it. I didn't disagree. He'd taken up a sort of hermitage in Old Yharnam, after that, watching over the beasts that escaped the flames. He didn't want to Hunt them, and he didn't want anyone else to, either. Durja, it seemed, simply wanted to let sleeping dogs lie.  
  
"They're not beasts, you know." He looked at me, his gaze intent. "They're people. Just like you and me. They lived here, had families, jobs, children..." He sighed, and he sounded very old and sad when he next spoke. "You should stop this. Go home, lass. Don't stay in this Hunt." I shook my head, and he tensed.  
  
"They're not _animals_ , no. But I think they _are_ beasts, now." I bit my lip, trying to organize what I was thinking. Durja's thumb tapped on the handle of his shotgun. "Yeah, they're... they're human. But I think humans can be beasts."  
  
"You understand what you're saying?"  
  
"Durja-- I live in Brockton Bay."  
  
"Never heard of it."  
  
"Yeah, I don't... think it's around here." To put it lightly. "There's no scourge, where I live. Not the one here, anyway... but there's still beasts. They form gangs, _packs_ , and they run around and just... hurt people. Not because they're sick, but because they _can_. They kill, and rob, and kidnap, and rape..." I trailed off, then shook my head. "They're humans, but they've chosen to be beasts. And I'm a Hunter."  
  
"And a Hunter must hunt?" There was bitterness in his tone, now. Bitterness, and disappointment. I felt my throat go thick with regret, and I wasn't sure why.  
  
"Someone has to." I hesitated, then swallowed, and my voice was thin and quiet. "I'm sorry, Durja."  
  
"You need to understand, lass. The Hunt is a horrific thing." He thumbed back the hammer on his shotgun, and raised the barrel level with my face.  
  
"But, Taylor... Hunters are the most horrific of all."  
  
He fired.


	17. Chapter 17

**PRT (2)**  
March  
  
  
"C'mon, Puppy, don't be like that."  
  
"Ethan, I'm serious. It won't work."  
  
"It will too. You won't know until we try."  
  
"No, I'm pretty sure it won't."  
  
"But Puppyyyyy~!"  
  
"Purple and green never go together. I don't care what Prince has to say about it." Samantha smiled, despite herself. It was simply too good of a day to get riled up over Ethan's appalling lack of taste in furniture. It was warm for this time of month, and the afternoon sun was keeping the Boardwalk bathed in gentle heat and light. The background noise of people talking, walking, and shopping made for a pleasant, droning hum, and the market stalls lining the streets were a riot of color and mouthwatering aromas from the various food-based entrepreneurs. Really, it was a great time to have a day off and take a walk with her husband, even with his usual antics. Samantha reached out a hand, and Ethan laced his fingers into hers, his shit-eating grin firmly in place. He laughed, and skipped back a step, to pull her along with him.  
  
"Ah!"  
  
Ethan skipped back, and didn't look over his shoulder in time to see the young girl behind him on the sidewalk. She tumbled, falling to the cement with an 'oof!' and losing hold of her cheap reusable shopping back, which spilled her purchases across the pavement. Ethan hopped on one foot to keep from stepping on a box of colored pencils.  
  
"Oh, jeeze! Sorry there honey, I didn't see you! You okay?"  
  
The girl looked up, moving a curtain of her curly dark hair away from her face, and nodded. Samantha bit down on the half-formed reprimand she'd prepared for Ethan. The girl didn't look well at _all_. Her skin was pale and sallow, and her face had a terrible sunken appearance, no doubt due to the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence under her eyes. She started to gather her misplaced possessions, and even the movements of her arms looked reluctant from exhaustion. She rescued the colored pencils from Ethan's near-stomping, followed by a thin black case of charcoal pencils, a pocket sewing kit, and...  
  
"Is... is that a grappling hook?" Samantha stared at the teen, who still hadn't risen from the sidewalk. She nodded. "Why do you have a grappling hook?"  
  
"For climbing."  
  
Samantha waited, for either an explanation or a punchline, but nothing else came. Ethan took it in better stride.  
  
"Hey, fair enough... so! Kiddo, how's about we buy you a coffee, or something? As a sorry for knocking into you like that, eh?" The girl blinked, as though startled, and bit down on a chapped lower lip. "There's a cafe right across the street, my wife and I were headed there anyway," he continued, though they'd intended no such thing, "So it's no trouble at all, really."  
  
The girl hesitated, then nodded, and accepted Ethan's hand to help her up. "Um... I could use a coffee, sure."  
  
"That's the spirit! Oh, I'm Ethan, and this is Sam, but I call her Puppy 'cause it bugs her. What's your name, kid?"  
  
"Taylor." She even spoke slowly. "Taylor Hebert."  
  
There really was a cafe across the street, and the trio walked to it, Ethan filling the silence with small talk. Samantha caught his eye and gave him a look, and the set of his jaw tensed a little. She knew what he was doing. It was a discussion they'd had before, only once, even if the memory of it was refreshed now and then.  
  
_Assault, I'm sorry, but you can't save everyone._  
  
You think that means we shouldn't try, Puppy?  
  
At the cafe, Ethan pulled out a chair first for Samantha, then for Taylor, with the teen's chair nearest the faux-fireplace that served as a heater for the little coffeshoppe. It wasn't set terribly high, not with the warm weather lately, but it was warm enough that after a few minutes, Taylor shrugged her way out of her oversized hoodie. Samantha passed a critical eye over the girl's thin arms. No visible track marks, at least, and despite her appearance she didn't smell of smoke or sweat.  
  
"You know, I could go for a muffin. You want a muffin? Let's have some muffins." He jumped up and went to the counter, not waiting for an answer. Samantha turned to Taylor and put a smile on her face.  
  
"Are you in school, Taylor?"  
  
"Yes... Winslow High." There was a pause before she spoke, as though it took just a half-moment longer than it should for Samantha's words to reach her and be translated into meaning.  
  
"Do you like it there?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
She gave a halfhearted shrug. "Not a very good school... don't like the other students, either. A lot of them are be---" She stopped. "A lot of them are in gangs."  
  
"Oh. That's... too bad." Taylor's tone had held at least some antipathy; Samantha moved 'Merchants' a bit down the list of probable causes for the girl's condition. "Well, um... so! You like to draw?"  
  
Taylor shook her head, then blinked. "Oh, because of the pencils? No. They're for a friend." Ethan came back with a basket of blueberry muffins. Taylor obligingly accepted one, then split it in half in order to spread butter on one side, and one of the little containers of jelly from the condiments centerpiece on the other. Samantha made an inquiring 'hmm?' noise, and made a small motion for her to continue.  
  
"His name's Gehrman... I wanted to get him something to draw with. He can't really go get anything himself, I think... he's in a wheelchair. I don't think he leaves his house much."  
  
Ethan seized the opening. "How about you? You get out much?" She opened her mouth to reply, then paused, and shook her head.  
  
"You do look kinda, uh, pale. Could use a bit more sun, maybe." Ethan bit into a muffin and swallowed, nearly without chewing. Samantha still hadn't gotten him to break that habit. "Gotta be honest, you kinda look like you're not feeling all that well, Taylor."  
  
"Oh... do I? Sorry. I'm just tired." She pulled her glasses off of her face and cleaned them on her shirt. "I don't sleep." A pause. "Much. Anymore."  
  
Samantha tried to be gentle in her prodding. "Can't get comfortable, or...?" The kid hadn't frozen up or tried to leave, which was a good sign, she hoped.  
  
"No, I... I have bad dreams." A momentary confusion passed over the teen's face. "So... I try to stay awake. But I can't do it forever... and when I wake up, I still feel tired."  
  
"That's a bummer, kiddo." Again, that slightly surprised blink. "How long's that been going on?"  
  
"Ah... January? Yeah. Start of January."  
  
Ethan nodded, as though this was perfectly normal, and steered the conversation onto safer topics for the next half hour, until Taylor said she needed to get going home. She thanked them for the coffee and muffins, and her smile, though tired, had a warmth to it. Samantha smiled back, and wished her a good afternoon. When Taylor had gone, Ethan grabbed another pair of drinks for them.  
  
"Chronic nightmares, huh? What causes that?"  
  
"In teens and adults? Substance abuse can." Samantha sighed. "Or traumatic abuse." When you work with parahuman teens, there are certain things you start to know to look for. Ethan took another bite of muffin, this time deigning to chew.  
  
"Winslow, huh? That's Sophie's school, right?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Huh. I'll ask her a couple questions tomorrow."  
  
  
  
  
  
Assault was a lot of things, not all of them (or even a lot of them) all that great, but he was always good on his word. He managed to track down Shadow Stalker before she could head out on her patrol the next day.  
  
"Yo! Stalker, gotta question for you. You're at Winslow, right? You know a 'Taylor Hebert'?"  
  
Stalker paused, breath catching just slightly. "Hebert? I wouldn't say I know her. Uh... I've got a class with her, I think."  
  
"You 'think'?"  
  
She shrugged. "Hebert doesn't talk much. I think she's in the back of my Math class, but I haven't really paid her any attention... why do you ask?"  
  
"Ah, just curious." He grinned. Shadow Stalker didn't seem convinced.  
  
"You've got a patrol to get to, don't you?" She did. Assault watched her leave, then headed towards the cafeteria for a snack. On the way, he palmed his phone and thumbed through his contacts.  
  
"Hey, Militia? Gotta question. When was the last time Winslow High had a Wards Visit?"


	18. Chapter 18

  
**Taylor (9)**  
March  
  
  
Durja's rapid fire accompanied my return trip through the Old Town, but his tracking had suffered noticeably, and as I sprinted past surly beasts instead of stopping to cut them down, the gatling gun's roar came less and less frequently, before finally halting altogether. I think that maybe this was the old hunter's way of getting a message across, without needing to voice it. Not that I was forgiven--I knew better than that--but I wonder if perhaps Durja wanted me to come back to the clocktower, anyway. I didn't know how long ago the last Great Hunt had been, when the Old Town was burned. How long ago had Durja taken up his lonely vigil? How many years had it been, alone here, keeping a thankless watch over creatures that no longer knew enough to recognize him as a neighbor?  
  
I put my hand on the ladder leading up to his perch, then passed it by.  
  
Beyond was the entrance to another church, decrepit, another wide open, lightless space of worship that Yharnam was so curiously fond of. Many beasts kept a lair here, and I plotted a course across the decaying beams and abandoned scaffolding rather than rouse them. The centerpiece of this church, instead of the altar, was a grand chandelier that must have once held hundreds of candles. Now, it sagged under the weight of a near-mummified body of a beast. The long claws had been tied in mockery of crucifixion, and skin pulled away from the creature's hide to expose dried cords of muscle and sinew. Underneath, almost half the church's floor was dyed a dark rust color.  
  
I used the rope attached to my new grappling hook to get down from the beams, placing my boot firmly in the curve of the hook's bar and keeping hold of the rope tossed over the beam to lower myself. It wasn't long enough to reach to the floor, but it shortened the distance enough that I felt I could make the drop more easily. As I did, I pondered on when, exactly, the beast had been strung up to die. Had it been a survivor of the purge, taking impotent revenge? Or had it been before, the blood left to seep into the stone as a means of prayer? Eventually, I dismissed the line of questioning. This was Yharnam; it could have been either one.  
  
Much like the blind beggar's chapel, this church stood astride the route to deeper within the Old Town. Here, there was more evidence of a long-doused fire than up above. I saw doors left broken on rusted hinges, a shop's sign blasted to charcoal, a reluctant spread of climbing ivy. I fancied I could still feel warmth in the broken stones, that I could smell smoke and bubbling paint. This place was truly abandoned. Even the crows had gone. I didn't want to explore this place, didn't want to linger. But I did.  
  
There was something here.  
  
I wasn't sure what it was. It was just an awareness, a phantom sense of need. It was a taste on the back of my tongue.  
  
It was in the broken-down chapel at the lowest point of the valley.  
  
And it was not unguarded.  
  
  


  
  
  
Crouched in front of the altar was a Beast like something out of Revelations. It was as large as a horse, but little more than skin stretched over bones, the very picture of long famine. Lesions covered its long limbs, weeping pus and a bitter-smelling slime. It was draped in something red, and I'm not sure if it was once a wrinkled cloak or robe, or if it had grown from the wretch's skin and hair. With a start, I realized that I recognized it: the crucified beast in the chapel above. I had thought it flayed and mummified by exposure, but seeing this starved thing before me, the red folds and black-skinned bones could be nothing else.  
  
It snuffled at the air as I entered, lifting its uncomfortably human-shaped head on its long neck. It rose to all fours and began to pace forward, and I stopped advancing. After a couple of steps, it began to sway its neck and head first left, then right. I couldn't see its eyes under the matted hair, but I suspected that the beast was blind. That was good. I could use that. The question was how, and for how long? I ran a hand along my belt's pouches, looking for something to throw.  
  
The Starved Beast snapped its teeth together, then moved into a ground-devouring lope towards me. Either it had sharper hearing than I'd wanted, or it had homed in on my scent. I abandoned my search and brought up my saw. Too late, I saw my mistake, and the Beast snaked its _very long_ arm away from its body and put its talons through my shirt, the nails scraping along my ribs as I threw myself in the other direction, and swiped my saw across the creature's face in retaliation. If it hadn't been blind before, it certainly was now, but it no longer mattered. I'd let it get too close, and now it had a bead on me.  
  
The Beast gave a hoarse cry, aimed itself in my direction, and _moved_. Had I not already been backing away to try and put some distance between us, I would have been skewered, because the Beast was fast. It cleared nearly six meters in a single lunging strike, so quickly my eyes couldn't follow it. I darted forward and hacked at its back legs, and felt the first bead of sweat roll off my forehead. The scrapes on my side had quickly begun to burn and itch, the sensation unfortunately familiar, but more intense than I'd imagined. The creature was so clotted with disease and that acrid slime that our battle had suddenly become a race. I needed to kill it before its infectious wounds killed _me_.  
  
The creature lunged again, striking _sparks_ on the stone floor with its claws, and when I tried for a strike it backhanded me into a pillar. Pain shot through my chest with terror on its heels. The Beast moved in closer, mouth opening, and this near to I could see that its skull was nearly completely human, if desiccated beyond belief, but it's teeth had grown large and too crowded for its jaw. I didn't want to imagine what being bit would feel like. My hand snapped to my holster and jerked my pistol up, my reflexes faster than my fear-stuttered thoughts. Gascoigne had taught me well. I fired into the Beast's open maw, point blank.  
  
Teeth sprayed out, dotted with foul blood, and the creature stumbled back in shock and pain. I pressed my advantage, shoved my saw up against its throat, and jerked the weapon to the side as hard as I could.  
  
It screamed around a ruined throat, its own ichors bubbling in the wound and sending droplets of red and spittle everywhere; my coat began to smoke where the spray landed.  
  
Pain drove the creature to frenzy. It knocked me off my feet in a blind swipe, then clawed at the pillar where I'd been. I struggled to regain my footing only to see it on the move again, still trying to follow the sounds of my passage, but its own wretched burblings helped to cover the sound of my boots, and when it lunged again I kept to the side and raked my saw against it as it passed. Furious, the beast shook itself like a dog and tore gouges in the stones, in its fleshy cape. It reared up to lunge at me again.  
  
"Miss Hunter! Left! GO LEFT!"  
  
I obeyed, tensing my legs and springing to my left. The Beast angled itself to follow me, but did not receive the chance to strike.  
  
Alfred charged forward, yelling out a war cry as he heaved a stone block the size of his own chest down upon the Beast's middle, the rail-thin waist giving under the blow with a sickening CRACK. The Beast was driven to the ground under the weight, its limbs thrashing and flailing. Alfred wasted no time, holding fast to the shaft of his impromptu greathammer, and drew from its core a long, thin sword. With his strength behind it, the sword had little trouble spearing deep into the Beast's chest and seeking its rotted heart. The creature wailed, and burbled, and eventually, grew still.  
  
"Oho-- well, that's a job well done, I should think. Miss Hunter, are you alright?"  
  
I nodded, out of breath and already digging for the waxed-paper packets of powdered medicine I'd stashed somewhere in my bag. "Alfred-- what are you-- doing here?"  
  
He dislodged his blade as we spoke, and wiped the Beast's blood from its steel. "You said you were headed to Old Yharnam, when last we met, and not long after that I heard gunfire." He paused. "Quite a lot of it, in fact."  
  
"Yeah, that's-- yeah."  
  
"And I admit, I grew concerned. So I thought to come and see if I could find you, and perhaps, lend a hand."  
  
"Glad you did. That thing was... nasty."  
  
"Yes, indeed. The Church did purge this place, but... perhaps they missed a few." I didn't think the shrouded and bandaged beasts up above were 'a few', but thought it best not to comment. "I never did ask your reasons for coming here, Miss Hunter. Were you simply looking for a Hunt?"  
  
"Not exactly. I was trying to find a way around the gates blocking off the rest of the Cathedral Ward." I moved over to the altar, stepping around a puddle of ichorous blood, and inhaled, letting the stale air cross over my tongue. _There it is._  
  
"And, I was also looking for this." Enshrined on the altar was an ornate cup, forged of gold or a similarly-colored metal, and covered thick with dust. I snatched it, without reverence, and blew a cloud of dust away from my prize. Alfred's face lit up in recognition.  
  
"Oho! This is-- that is a sacred Chalice, my friend! Quite a find indeed! The Church has long searched for them, in the Tombs of the Gods." There was a measure of envy in his eyes, but to his credit, he smiled and looked to me, instead. "I congratulate you, Hunter. I do hope that you will donate this relic to the Healing Church, after the Hunt has ended, but in the meantime? I think it has come to a worthy soul, indeed."  
  
I couldn't help it. I grinned at the praise, and though my face was hidden by my cowl, the smile reached my eyes enough to brighten Alfred's expression even further. He clapped his hands once, then with a great heave slung his hammer over his shoulder. I was impressed; the man must have been made of iron.  
  
"So! What say you? Shall we leave this dreary place behind?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Alfred led me back through the winding streets of the Old Town, keeping up a genial conversation all the way. He was a bit of a chatterbox, apparently, and I was happy enough to let him dominate the conversation with talks of the Healing Church, and the history of the Hunt, and the Executioners to which he belonged. The name was certainly morbid, but considering the unpleasant necessity of a Hunter's profession, not inaccurate. His bubbling cheerfulness never waned, all the way to the base of a massive tower.  
  
"Here we are. Now, in that direction," he pointed towards an alleyway, which sloped gently upwards, "is the route to the Grand Cathedral that you wanted. There's an old elevator that connects the districts. I should think it's still working." He tapped next on the doorframe of the tower. "And this leads to the Cathedral Ward proper. It's a long climb, but the stairs are still mostly intact, though I advise you to watch your step, Miss Hunter. If you keep going up, you'd eventually reach the old Healing Church Workshop! I don't know if there's anything there of interest to you anymore, but it couldn't hurt to check." He smiled. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"  
  
"Just one. What did you mean, the Cathedral Ward 'proper'?"  
  
"Just as I said, really. About halfway up, the tower connects to the Cathedral at the lowest level of the Ward; I passed through there to get here, in fact. And now that you remind me, I saw a good many citizens taking shelter there tonight. Was that your doing? Splendid work!"  
  
I was going to kill Gehrman.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**PRT (3)**  
April  
  
  
"...our very own Brockton Bay Wards!"  
  
Polite applause rippled through the gymnasium stands as the vice principal passed the microphone over to Aegis. As the young man started his prepared speech, Ethan tapped Hannah on the shoulder and jerked his thumb towards the nearby exit. The pair slipped out, and started down the comparatively quiet hallways of Winslow High. They were both undercover, in a sense, posing as normal PRT agents here to drive the Wards to and from the school for the visit. Ethan tugged at his dress shirt's sleeves, already regretting everything. Or at least, regretting picking a shirt so filled with starch it could have passed for Armsmaster.  
  
"So, are you ready to tell me why we're doing this?"  
  
"Hannah, can't this just be a regular Wards outing? Spreading the good word of School Good, Drugs Bad?"  
  
"With you here?"  
  
"You say that like I've got some kind of agenda."  
  
"Ethan, you always have some kind of agenda."  
  
"You wound me so." Ethan grinned, glad that Hannah had agreed to come with him for his new pet project. Among the rest of the local Protectorate, she was the most likely to respond to his banter in kind. That, and she was also the most sympathetic to endangered youth. Puppy or Triumph would go through PRT regulations, Velocity would call on contacts in the BBPD, and Armsmaster would find a clever way to automate the investigation. But Hannah?  
  
"Ran into a stray last week, me an' Puppy. Girl who goes here. Hit a lot of red flags for severe abuse." Her mouth opened in a brief 'oh' of surprise, just before her eyes turned to steel.  
  
Hannah would move mountains.  
  
"Elaborate."  
  
"Taylor Hebert, age fifteen. Here's a picture from last year's yearbook." He pulled a photocopied page from a pocket, and Hannah unfolded it, eyeing the circled black and white picture of a young girl with dark hair. "...and here's her, last week."  
  
He handed her his phone, with the camera app already loaded. It was a picture of the same girl, sitting at a table in some kind of restaurant or cafe. Hannah recognized the woman sitting next to her as Samantha.   
  
"Not much of an expression on her face..." Ethan nodded.  
  
"Flat effect, the whole time. Nearly monotone, too. Skin's got a definite pallor, but no jaundice I could see. No visible track marks, but chapped lips that might be indicative of addiction. She reported extreme sleep deprivation due to chronic nightmares." Hannah frowned harder, if possible.  
  
"Well she definitely needs a doctor, if not an intervention. Let's grab her schedule, then split up?"  
  
"Readin' my mind." Ethan held out a closed fist to Hannah, and she knocked her own knuckles against his.  
  
"Go Team."  
  
* * *  
  
Their investigation turned up a suspicious amount of nothing.  
  
Hebert's schedule was easy enough to get, and Ethan took a brief tour of her day by peeking into the various classrooms. Winslow had a lot of oddball teachers on staff, it seemed. The computer lab was shrouded in darkness, every curtain drawn and every window shuttered, but that was probably just because of glare. The math teacher's chalkboard was generously decorated with right-angle triangles in permanent marker, but hey, maybe the guy just _really loved_ geometry. The history teacher had set up a censer, of all things, near the desk, and while Ethan wasn't sure on the legalities of burning incense in schools, he was willing to let it slide.  
  
The girl's locker was a bit more telling. It had been vandalized, repeatedly by the looks of it, the door covered in scratches and markers forming slurs and a number of hateful doodles. At some point the lock had been broken, and rather than request a new locker, it seems Hebert had decided to simply stop using the storage entirely. It was devoid of books or supplies, but contained a number of insults scrawled on the inside door and walls.  
  
Hannah had the dubious honor of questioning two of the only staff members not required at the assembly: the nurse, and the principal of the school, a Mrs. Blackwell. The principal was singularly uncooperative, hemming and hawing and evading direct questions until Hannah hinted at the possibility of returning later, with backup. At that, she deigned to show off the girl's student record file: it was empty, save for her name stenciled on the label, and a paper copy of her grades from each semester. Hannah noted the steep decline into outright Failure territory, then left. She did not thank Blackwell for her time.  
  
The nurse, she was relieved to find, was nowhere near Blackwell's level of occlusion. Nurse Berenice was a heavyset woman with a stern expression, and crows' feet starting at the corners of her eyes, and when asked, she recognized the student Hannah was inquiring for.  
  
"No, she hasn't been in here recently, but I used to give her quite a lot of bandaids and icepacks."  
  
"She got hurt a lot?"  
  
"They say she's rather clumsy," Berenice said, not elaborating on who _they_ were, "and she roughhouses a lot with a few other students. You know how children are."  
  
"These aren't really children, though, but teenagers." Hannah frowned. "And she's not in any sports."  
  
"Hm."  
  
"I don't suppose you have any records of her inj-- of your encounters with her? Treatments?"  
  
Nurse Berenice was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, she looked right into Hannah's eyes, her voice tense and gaze unwavering. "I'm afraid I can't give out anything like that. Medical records are protected information. You'll need a warrant. You understand?"  
  
Hannah's eyes widened, then she smoothed her expression back into a calm politeness. "Of course. Thank you for your time."   
  
Ethan met her back at the gymnasium, and they leaned against a quieter corner of the bleachers and tried to look nonchalant.  
  
"Lot of petty vandalism on her locker, and a few of the desks in her classes, but I can't prove that she sits there. I'm leaning pretty heavily towards bullying. Get this, though: she's not here today."  
  
"Truant?"  
  
"Father called her in sick this morning. Like he has for the past four days this week."  
  
"That's... an unpleasant coincidence. Nurse said she collects a lot of bruises and abrasions." She heard Ethan suck a quiet breath in through his teeth, and continued, "And she hinted at me pretty heavily that I might want to get a warrant, and pull her medical records."  
  
"Health information's hard to get a hold of. Minimum necessary clause, and all... we're gonna need more than a probable cause handwave."  
  
"I have a feeling we'll get it. We should check the home, too. Can you swing a search warrant?" Ethan nodded. "Good. Oh-- I persuaded the principal to get me her file? It was empty."  
  
"That's... good?"  
  
"No. There was a lot of dust in the bottom. Paper flecks, like you get when a lot of cheap paper rubs edges. I think her file's been deliberately emptied, and recently."  
  
"The hell..."  
  
Hannah sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. "We can interview the father while we're at it, in case he knows something, or for domestic abuse, but the vandalism and the principal being shifty makes me think you're on the right track." Ethan made an agreeable noise, and they both watched the assembly wrap up. The Wards had long since done their demonstrations and answering questions, so now it was just a series of reminders on upcoming football games, or changes in the cafeteria menu.  
  
"Hokay. I'll buy Robin a few beers tonight, try and get things moving with his buddies. Thanks, Hannah. Knew I could count on you."  
  
* * *  
  
Hannah took a nap that night, along with a couple of aspirin, and she dreamed.  
  
She dreamed she was walking down the halls of Winslow, on her way to the Principal's office, and when she glanced out the windows lining the hallway she saw a hand. Swarthy, with insect-like spindly hairs, and every finger was longer than she was tall. She tried to stop walking, stop moving, even breathing for fear that **it** would know she was there. But she hadn't, and so she didn't.  
  
When she woke, the headache and the memory of the dream had dissolved, leaving only the anxious flickering of her power in their wake.


	20. Chapter 20

  
**Taylor (10)**  
April  
  
  
I woke up.  
  
Or at least, that's the closest words I have for what I experienced.  
  
I was in the Dream, slumped against one of the many headstones lining the broken paths. Several of the Little Ones were clustered around my feet, whispering excitedly to each other, and I felt a moment of confusion when I looked down at myself. The Dream was always pristine, I knew that, and yet I could not shake the impression that I should have been soaked in blood, some dry and some not.  
  
Some red, and some not.  
  
Clutched loosely in my fingers was the golden chalice I'd retrieved from the lowest levels of Yharnam. It was the only thing here not clean, for a crust of dried blood so dark it was nearly black encircled the rim, and a few droplets of mixed blood and ocular fluid remained in the chalice's cup. I wondered how I knew there had been eyes in that cup. I swallowed down the gorge that rose with the question, and told myself I didn't really need to know. I moved to rise and the Little Ones hurriedly took the chalice from me, and set it neatly at the base of a different headstone, before I could dislodge it in my movements and send the relic tumbling down the hill.  
  
"God, my head. I feel like I'm on speed or something."  
  
My head was buzzing, some sensation between pain and confused pleasure. I thought I had known restlessness before? My veins were carbonated, now. I felt them crawling around my ribs.  
  
"Welcome home, good hunter. We were beginning to worry. You have been below in the tombs for some time now."  
  
"I-- have I been?"  
  
The Doll nodded at me, serene as ever. She had the Learn to Sew booklet I'd bought her spread on the heather near her, and I could see the start of a Little One-sized copy of her bonnet being worked on.  
  
"I'm not sure what that means?"  
  
"Do you not recall?" I shook my head, and stumbled over to her. I think I'd been dreaming, but all I could remember were bits and pieces. Darkness. Bloodless, pale skin. Faces, inhuman, with jaws unhinged and mouths open in a scream. I shook my head again, harder.  
  
"Mm. Perhaps the dream of it is deep for you, then. The memories will become clearer, in time."  
  
"What was I doing in... there?"  
  
She frowned, just slightly, and started carefully piecing a thin strip of lace to the bonnet. "Hunters have told me about the Tomb of the Gods, but their tales are strange, and often conflicting with one another. I have heard that they are caverns, and forests, and catacombs. I have been told they are sacred, and profane; that they are a tool for strengthening oneself, or a means of worship. I have asked the Little Ones, but they will say only that the Tomb is not a grave, but a place of birth. I do not understand."  
  
That made two of us, at least. I went next to find Gehrman, and question him, but he wasn't in the workshop. I eventually located him out in-- well I couldn't really call it a garden, it was just more paths and flowers, but this section around the little cottage was more overgrown than the rest, and it seemed to me that it would have been where a garden would be placed, had the cottage been a home instead of an armory. He'd rolled his wheelchair out to the back, beneath a tree, and had tipped his battered old hat over his eyes for a nap. I decided to leave him be; I didn't want to wake him, and I was far too jittery to simply wait for him.  
  
I returned to the Cathedral Ward instead, armed with my grappling hook and a fierce desire to conquer. I got my wish, too. In between finding, scaling, and subsequently unlocking the many gates scattered throughout the district, I turned my attentions to the inhabitants. The beastmen stayed closer to the residential areas, it seemed, and I suspect that was due not to a sense of civic duty, but out of fear of the Ward's guardians. I hesitated to call them men-- tall, broad-shouldered beings, who covered themselves in voluminous cloaks and were armed with heavy metal staves, or burning crosses, or eerie lanterns encrusted with growths that looked entirely too much like eyes for my taste.  
  
I had encountered them before, rarely, in my earlier forays, but now they were everywhere. I remember them giving me quite a bit of trouble, because they had a lot of reach from the sheer length of their arms, much less from their weapons. Now, though, I cut them down with hardly a thought. The few beastmen among them may as well have been made of paper, for how little guard they had against the bite of my saw. It felt like no time at all until I was advancing up the steps towards the grand cathedral. The doors were heavy, but I was stronger now, and with some effort they opened for me.  
  
Inside were even more stairs, these ones framed by a series of statues of creatures holding spears, the long poles crossing each other near the ceiling; I remembered seeing a similar arrangement before in movies, knights creating a corridor of crossed armaments in a gesture of respect. These weren't statues of knights; the creatures had bulbous, almond-shaped heads, covered in ridges and hollows like a sponge. They had open mouths, and though I couldn't explain why, I felt that the sculptor had made a mistake, in that.  
  
There was a beast waiting for me at the farthest end of the cathedral, though I took her for a human at first. She was kneeling before the altar, prostrating herself, and I heard her fevered prayers as I grew closer:  
  
_"Seek the old blood. Let us pray, let us wish, to partake in communion. Let us partake in communion and feast upon the old blood._  
_Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears. Seek the old blood, but beware the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young._  
_The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths. Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young._  
_Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented."_  
  
She started over when she reached the end of the prayer, oblivious to my presence.  
  
"Excuse me? Miss? It's not safe here. I can lead you out of here, to a safer place. Will you come with me?"  
  
I was about to shake her shoulder when she started to rise, not leaving her knees, but at least looking up. She didn't look at me, though: she had her eyes on her hand, a large circular pendant clasped between them. Her breath started to hitch and wheeze.  
  
"Um. Miss?"  
  
Like Gascoigne, it happened very quickly, though it had likely been a long time in the making.  
  
Her ribs cracked and shot out through her back, her shoulderblades tore through her skin as they grew large. Her body undid itself, and remade itself in the same breath. Her humanity splashed upon the altar.  
  
I smiled. I remember that I smiled, even though she towered above me now. Even though I'd gotten here too late for her. Even though her paws swiped and pushed, trying to keep me away from her.  
  
Even though her screams sounded like " **No**."  
  
When it was done, I swiped my fingers through her blood on the altar, rubbed it between my fingertips. The memories I drank from the altar seemed, at the time, unimportant, but when I collected blood from the cooling behemoth I wrote what I learned on one of the vials, so that I wouldn't forget.  
  
I started back towards the blind beggar's chapel in the Cathedral Ward, eager to return to the Dream and share news of my accomplishment with the Doll. I'd bested a beast that would have frightened me, not so long ago, and while I was not unscathed I felt amazing. I pondered, as I skirted past the various bodies I'd left in my wake, where I should hunt next. Gehrman had said that much was beyond the Grand Cathedral, but I wanted to check his map again and see what I could learn from it. I might even get to explore some more, before I had to go home.  
  
Home...  
  
At one point I stopped, and removed my glove, and stared at my hand. My fingers had grown calloused, over the past couple of months. I squeezed my hand into a fist, felt my knuckles crack. I liked the strength I felt. I liked how alive I felt. It was never like this at home. At home I stumbled, I yawned, I struggled just to see. Moonlight helped, but the silver orb was only bright enough, at most, for three days in thirty.  
  
The Doll had said I'd been here, not in Yharnam but dreaming in the graves, for a while. How long had passed, back home? Had I been gone long enough for anyone to notice? And... did it really matter if I had?  
  
Yharnam was terrible, yes, but was Brockton Bay really any better? At least here, I was awake. Here, I was strong. Here, I was making a difference, keeping people safe from the beasts. Here, I had blood, as much as I could want, everywhere.  
  
There was something about that thought that seemed wrong to me. It took me a few moments to understand, and when I did, fear prickled cold sweat along my spine. I felt my thoughts grow clearer with the chill. Of course: blood. I was near drunk with it, my brain humming and my veins thrumming with excitement. I had just watched a young woman meet a terrible fate, at my hands no less, and here I stood basking in the sensations her death left me? I felt an inkling of shame flicker to life in my gut, and I grasped at it, held tightly to it. Guilt followed, swift and crushing.  
  
This was wrong. I was wrong. Everything was wrong. I was learning the lesson too late.  
  
I fled back to the Dream, fled back to the Bay, and in my room I scrambled up from my bed and to my desk. I scattered pens and pencils everywhere, grabbed for any paper I could find. I couldn't forget this. I started writing, scrawling the same thing over and over, willing it to be burnt into my brain. Willing it to remain.  
  
E S C A P E  
  
E S C A P E  
  
E S C A P E  
  
I don't know if I wanted to escape Yharnam, or myself.  
  
I still don't.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

  
**....?**  
May  
  
  
Sound came first. Distant cries of animals, the sound muffled and strange, as though they were hearing it through water. Drips were nearby, sluggish, too burdened to even approach a babble of a brook. Far below, just past the edge of hearing, there was a low moan, the earth protesting against the wretched thing that had grown upon it.

  
_was she asleep?_  


Smell and taste returned together, and withthem the insistent need to gag. The air was full of dust and iron, and beneath their tread was the sickly-sweet edge of decay. The latter faded slowly, sank into the stench of rot.

  
Sight bloomed upon regret. They sky was far away, painted in washed-out twilight, pressing against the vault of the heavens in a bid to escape the bonds of the earth. The sun was dying, not by the grip of night but by a creeping mold. It had already swallowed the edges and was stretching tendrils inward.

Sensation finally came, along with the awareness of self, of a body. The first thing she did was cough. The second was to reach for her weapon.

Still there. Thank God.

  
_was she asleep?_  


  
There was red all around her, it was hard to see much else. Her eyes felt wrong. Slowly, details swam into view: clumps of dry, pale grasses poking up from the crimson mire. Stretches of hard-baked sand and rocks the color of bones. There were occasional eddies in the sluggish liquid nearby, and she tried to pull away, but she was up to her knees in the stuff, and why was it warm it was soaking through her shoes and  
  
Stop. Deep breaths.  
  
Breathe through your mouth. Try again.  
  
She was standing in a bog, because the muck that clung to her legs was far too thick to be water or marshland. It was red, darkly so, and it smelled like pus and iron and disease. The taste of it was thick on her tongue with ever breath. She cast about, eyes squinted against the wrong light. She was too far from the sandbars to pull herself free, and the filth was clinging to her like glue. (Was she still sinking? Please, please don't be sinking.) She reached inside herself, took hold of something, and pulled--  
  
But it was already stretched, locked like a muscle in cramp. Confused, she held up her arms to the diseased sky, and yes; light filtered through her, motes caught in a thickened shadow, and the light drifted and swirled in fading eddies, striking color on her skin and clothes where they could. The rest of her was made of night. Movement in the mire, just a few inches away-- a hand reached up, followed by skull and spine and ribs, and the body was little more than slime and bones. All its flesh had long since sloughed off, joined the bloody marsh, but still it reached out a hand and tried to grasp at her shirt.

  
_was she asleep?_  


  
She felt the pressure of its fingers as its hand slid through her, her night rippling like smoke and water. The body whimpered, its hopes dashed, and it once again sank below the surface.  
  
Finally: memory. Her eyes widened, threatened to burst into darkness or tears.  
  
She felt teeth on her heart.  
  
_Sophia started to scream._

 

 


	22. Taylor (11)

**Taylor (11)**  
April  
  
  
"A _metal_ beast?" Gehrman repeated, leaning forward in his chair with interest. "I've never heard of such a thing."  
  
"Mhm. It's called Hookwolf. Starts out looking like a human, and then knives start growing all over it, and it just gets bigger and bigger. I couldn't even scratch it." I couldn't help shivering at the reminder. Hookwolf had loosened his shape until his forward mass resembled a wormlike tunnel, then he'd closed it over me, slowly enough so I'd see my doom coming. It had been like getting caught in a woodchipper. Not a clean death.  
  
"Hnn..." Gehrman made a thoughtful noise, then wheeled his chair over towards the workbench. It held a few scattered tools, like the wax-sealed pot of quicksilver I used for making bullets, and up above were hung a number of weapons half-assembled. All of them were blades, though, and it didn't look like any of them would cut through Hookwolf's steel hide. Gehrman must have thought similarly, because he grunted and shook his head.  
  
"Most of our tools are gone now, I'm afraid, and even if we had them there's nothing here I could build for you. I should think any ordinary blade would be turned aside by this beast of yours. But, do not despair... there hasn't been a beast yet that a Hunter couldn't find a way to kill. You're just... going to need something with a little more 'kick' to it. I don't suppose you'd have an idea on where to get something like that, hm?" Gehrman's wrinkled face stretched in a smile, and I answered it with one of my own.  
  
  
  
As it turns out, I did have an idea or two on the subject.  
  
The trek back to Djura's clocktower was one I was getting very familiar with, though I noticed that dusk had fallen at some point. Yharnam was eerie in the moonlight. I'm not sure which was worse, the silvery witchlight or the sunset rays that made the whole city seem aflame. It was a bit harder to dodge the beasts in the Old Town with less light to spot them by, and I earned a few scrapes for my trouble, but as before the gatling gun's staccato roar petered out when I kept my weapon holstered. I scrambled up the ladder and called out before I reached the summit:  
  
"Djura! Djura, can I come up?"  
  
Silence. I took it as assent, and clambered up to the top. Djura was waiting, shotgun in hand but not pointed directly at me. Just in my general direction. I moved over and sat on the ledge opposite him, catching my breath.  
  
"Didn't I make myself clear, lass?"  
  
"Yeah, you-- yeah." Renewed guilt twisted in my gut. "I think I... understand a bit better, now."  
  
"Then why did you come back?"  
  
And here was the hard part. I took a deep breath. "I need your help." He didn't look impressed. I continued, "I need to find a Powder Keg weapon."  
  
"Why? An' more importantly, why should I care to help you, Hunter?"  
  
"In my home town, there's a beast that's made of knives. I'm serious; I can't scratch it with my saw, bullets just bounce right off."  
  
"You still haven't answered the second bit."  
  
"You don't have to care about helping me, Djura." I looked up at him. "But maybe you can care about all the people who live there, in Brockton. They have families, jobs, children. And they're being preyed upon." I couldn't see his eyes past the thin strips of gauze, but I imagined I could see them narrowing in anger as I turned his words back at him.  
  
"Please, Djura."  
  
He sighed, and leaned against the opposite ledge. We stayed like that for a while, each digesting our own thoughts. Finally, he spoke:  
  
"Made of knives. Really."  
  
"Really."  
  
"Your Brockton Bay is as queer a place as Yharnam." He rubbed at his face with his hands, "Alright. I know where to get the remains of something that could help, but to repair it you'll need to get a few things for me. First I'll need tools. You know the tall tower on the side of the Cathedral Ward?"  
  
I nodded. I was still a little bitter about that.  
  
"Good. That tower connects to a few different workshops. Up top will be the Church's little parlor, and 'bout halfway down should be the ruins of the first workshop. Go loot them both, bring me back any tools you find. No idea if the stairs are still there, but that's your problem, not mine." I nodded, more to show I understood than to agree. "Then I'll want some Bone Marrow Ash. It's a grey powder, closer to sand than ashes. It's produced in the charnel houses over in Hemwick. Go left of the Grand Cathedral, then follow your nose."  
  
"How much do you need?"  
  
"As much as you find. And get me the tools first."  
  
"Okay. And Djura?"  
  
"What?"  
  
I smiled, not that he could see it behind my scarf, and started down the ladder. "Thank you."  
  
The sprint back to the Ward was just as hectic as before, but somehow I felt a bit lighter, this time.  
  
  
The stairs were still there, for the most part, but it was a nerve-wracking climb nonetheless. I didn't understand how everything in Yharnam could be so populated, and yet so disused. The Church Workshop was inhabited as well, a handful of the beastmen taking advantage of the surplus of ammunition stored there, but that was the only nasty surprise I came across. Of note, while scrounging what tools remained I came across another pendant to hang on the Little One's stump, and also a closed door at the top of the tower. I tried to pry it open, to no avail. I'd have to ask Gehrman where it led to, later. Back down the tower I went, and unfortunately, the stairs grew more unstable the further down I got. I found a closed door about halfway down from the Ward, as Djura had said, but it was tricky business getting to it, as the walkway had collapsed.   
  
Getting that grappling hook remains one of my best ideas to date.  
  
Surprisingly, the door to the old workshop was unlocked. It has occurred to me to wonder if it had always been unlocked, but I didn't see any footprints in the thick dust on the landing. For whatever reason, the workshop had remained undisturbed for a long time.  
  
It was an unsettling experience. Because I had been here before.  
  
The old workshop... it was the Dream. The crumbled stones of the twisty little paths were all the same. Here was a flagstone I had tripped over, there was the post of a fence I'd hung my coat upon, while I sat with the Doll and watched her sew. The moonlight even hit the tiles of the little cottage's roof in the same way. But the Dream was overrun with flowers, and graves, and the heady scent of moonlight. Here there were only the smells of old growth, of dust and dried soil, of melancholy. I felt tears prick at my eyes, and blinked them away.  
  
The workshop was long abandoned. The wooden shelves had broken, the floor was a tired splintered grey. The fire's coals had sputtered out ages ago. The walls were bare. And yet if I closed my eyes, I could see it clearly as I knew it in the Dream, with the wooden floors a warm hue from just enough polish and care, with the walls adorned with the tools of this trade, with the fire full of embers, filling the cottage with a soothing heat. A fleeting thought hit me, and I snagged it before it could vanish:  
  
The Dream was clearly this workshop, or a memory of it, taken from brighter days. But the workshop was long abandoned. And so I wondered...  
  
...just how long had Gehrman been there? How long had he been in that Dream, staying in that little cottage surrounded by moonlight?  
  
And on the tail, quickly smothered: how long would I be there?  
  
I hurriedly stuffed the contents of the workbench into a bag, and blinked my eyes fiercely. I told myself I'd come back, and explore more thoroughly. I even meant it.  
  
If my eyes were still red-rimmed when I got back to Djura, he was kind enough not to mention it. When I lingered, his voice was quiet, with a trace of sympathetic warmth.   
  
"Was there else you needed, lass?"  
  
"Just... thinking." I chewed on my lip, and watched him sort through the bag of odds and ends I'd brought him, separating what was useful from what was not. I watched the worn edges of his coat, the streaks of ash that never washed out.  
  
"Djura?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"How did you get out?"  
  
He paused, looking up at me.   
  
"Of the Hunt. Of..." I didn't say Dream. I think he heard it anyway, because he sat back on his heels for a moment in silence.   
  
"I don't rightly know, Taylor. It... was a long time ago, I think. I don't quite remember the specifics. And I'm not sure I'm the best one to ask, really."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
He gave a short jut of his chin towards the bright circle of the moon.  
  
"I'm still here, aren't I?"


	23. Chapter 23

  
**PRT (4)**  
May  
  
  
"What in the goddamn hell happened."  
  
Director Emily Piggot had her hands spread on the table, and every knuckle was white. She wasn't the only one on that front. Armsmaster was certain that, within his armored gauntlets, his own were maintaining an unnatural pallor. Everyone in the conference room had some signs of tension; Assault had Battery in a combination hug/deathgrip, Velocity was repeatedly tapping his fingers on the tabletop, and even Miss Militia looked worn down. She was keeping a tight hold on her composure and power, which was currently in one of her favorite pistol configurations. Dauntless and Triumph looked fairly normal, but then, neither of them had been present for the altercation yesterday.  
  
"Answer me, Armsmaster!  
  
Armsmaster jolted, and immediately began to recite, "At 11:47 hours, May--"  
  
"Not the report, Armsmaster. I've heard it, I've read it, and it does not explain what happened. It does not explain HOW this happened."  
  
"...Apologies, Director." He'd been awake for over 36 hours with the help of stimulants, and his focus was starting to fray. There was a countdown in the corner of his helmet's display, keeping time on how long before he could safely use another stimulant. It looked much too far out in the future for how much work there was left to do.  
  
"We finished the preliminary analysis of the creature's remains. Tests confirmed that the creature was primarily composed of human DNA." He paused. "We have confirmed that it was the missing Shadow Stalker."  
  
"Christ..." Assault whispered.  
  
"Surveillance footage showed Shadow Stalker infiltrating my lab, shortly before she went missing. She was after the-- after--" He brought up the recorded footage from his armor's onboard computer, and withdrew the cables necessary for an audio-visual hookup to the briefing room's monitor. A quick touch of a button, and the recording started to play.  
  
"Woah, wait, pause it." He did, with a slightly irritated glance to the interruptor. Triumph gestured towards the screen. "What's that?"  
  
"The collected sample of blood from the recent cape, Bloodmoon, taken from the scene of her altercation with Hookwolf one month ago. The liquid showed some... anomalous properties when first inspected, and so it was placed under quarantine. As Bloodmoon is suspected of having either a Breaker state or a form of teleportation, our leading theory was that Bloodmoon either is, or is working with, a Biotinker." He resumed the video. "And then _this_ happened."  
  
On the screen, Shadow Stalker stopped to examine the double-sealed containment case. She swayed on her feet, giggling, and then withdrew a glass jar from her cargo pants.  
  
The jar left her hand, slowly floated through the solid glass and the energy fields, and stopped just underneath the orb of blood. Liquid left the vacuum and trickled into the jar, filling it, and then the jar floated back into Stalker's waiting hand. She exchanged it for another jar.  
  
And then she tore off her mask and drank.  
  
"What the FUCKING HELL--"  
  
"Oh my God. That's--"  
  
"Why would she--"  
  
"Enough!" Piggot snapped. Armsmaster paused the video again.  
  
"You said-- anomalous properties. Start there."  
  
"...the blood does not behave as a standard liquid. It maintains its color, it does not evaporate or congeal, and it ripples without provocation. A few samples were sent to other Protectorate tinkers for analysis, and each has reported an increase in disturbed sleep and nightmares."  
  
"And what about you?"  
  
"I try to avoid sleeping, when possible. When not possible, I employ a sedative of my own design to ensure rest."  
  
"Fine. Keep going."  
  
"Master/Stranger protocols were in place, but there is no record of Shadow Stalker having any contact with the blood prior to this event." He paused. "That we know of."  
  
Piggot's gaze was shrewd. "You're thinking she had an encounter in her civilian persona."  
  
"At present, we don't have any other leads. We're still working to understand the mechanisms at work in the... liquid samples."  
  
"So at the very least, possible Master/Stranger shenanigans aside, we have a villainous, mutagenic biotinker at loose in Brockton. Wonderful." The room fell into a heavy silence under the weight of implications. At length, Miss Militia looked up from her pistol.  
  
"Stalker... she goes to Winslow, doesn't she?" At Armsmaster's nod, she continued. "Assault and I were there, not too long ago. Ah, two weeks? About that."  
  
"The Wards visit. I remember." Piggot frowned. "What of it?"  
  
"The visit, but also looking into a different matter, involving one of Stalker's classmates. The school was..." She frowned, searching for the right word. "...odd."  
  
"No kidding. Should've seen some of those classrooms... Velocity, how's that search warrant coming, while we're on the subject?"  
  
Velocity startled a bit, blinking. "Oh. Uh, kinda lost track of it, what with... this." He gestured at-- well, everything. "Should have it soon, if it's not set up already."  
  
"Well," Piggot sighed, "Your use of on-duty hours to pursue an independent investigation aside, I suppose it's at least something. Get a report to me ASAP. I have figure out what the hell to say to the Youth Guard and the Chief Director. Dismissed."  
  
* * *  
  
Colin retreated to his lab. He sank into the plush office chair at his desk--really the only luxury he allowed himself in this room--and stared at the empty space where the sample used to be. It had been moved to a more secure containment, and the implication that his own security was not sufficient rankled. He still hadn't figured out the trick Stalker had done with the jars.  
  
A beep sounded from his helmet's display, reminding him of his schedule for the day. He'd originally been slated to work on the cooling system in his Halberd, but that was being pushed aside out of necessity. He'd had to detonate his motorcycle in the battle against-- against Shadow Stalker. A decade's worth of work was lost. He was fortunate he kept several backups of the blueprints, but it would still be months before he could assemble a new one. At least it was a good time to look over the engine's plans, see what optimizations he could make to it before commissioning the requisite parts. He reached for the shelf with his older designs, bound neatly into binders.  
  
And he stopped.  
  
Next to the older designs were the binders containing the records and scheduling of the Wards, crammed onto the end of the shelf like an afterthought. Colin stretched his fingers and brushed against the binder labeled "Peer Reviews, 2011."  
  
_"However, I did get a report from Winslow that you missed classes yesterday, and I have noticed signs of fatigue from you. It's beginning to affect your accuracy and performance averages. Are you alright, Shadow Stalker?"_  
  
"Yeah, just haven't gotten as much sleep as I'd like lately..."  
  
His eyes widened. Slow, horrified realization crept over him.  
  
"I did this," he whispered.  
  
Logic and rationality said that he could not have predicted what effect the blood would have on someone crazy enough to ingest it, that he had no way of knowing that Shadow Stalker had been exposed. That he could not have known what she would do. And that was true.  
  
It was also true that he had known she wasn't feeling well. And that he had let the matter drop without a fight, because he was working on his combat algorithm program and wanted to get the month's peer reviews over with. He had known. He had _known_ , and done _nothing_.  
  
Colin sank back into his chair.  
  
Vista was still in the hospital. Panacea had managed to heal her and restore Clockblocker's shattered sternum, but Vista had gone into a full-blown panic attack and was being kept for observation yet. Clockblocker was shaken, avoiding speaking to anyone more than absolutely necessary. Aegis had been stabilized, and put on a high-protein, high-calorie tube feeding while his lower body slowly grew back. He'd requested a leave of absence, beyond the needs of his hospital stay. And Shadow Stalker was dead.  
  
He'd killed one of the Wards in his care. The result of his inaction had nearly killed half the rest.  
  
_I did this._  
  
Colin was not a precog; he couldn't have predicted what would happen. And more importantly, he could not change the past. He could not undo this mistake. But to take something broken, and fix it? To take something wrong and tinker until it was right? That, he could do.  
  
He reached for the Wards' records and reviews.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Taylor (12)**  
April - May  
  
  
The madwomen of the charnel houses posed a bit of a complication for me.  
  
Not in getting past them, none wore anything more sturdy than patched and stained dresses and aprons, and they unfailingly charged straight at my saw when they saw me coming. They bore simple farming tools, for the most part, though the rare inventive one had a hot poker or homemade Molotov. The problem was that the madwomen were not visibly infected by the beast scourge, and neither were they flaunting gang colors. They were not obviously beasts, though they were clearly insane; they laughed and howled and danced with the unsteady, fevered voices of those who were already gone.  
  
And they certainly weren't being peaceful or even neutral. You don't just try to stab someone out of the blue because they wandered into your line of sight. I tentatively decided that these were mercy killings, but the dilemma weighed on me for some time. What was I supposed to do, if I ran into someone who would try to stop me, or harm me, and they were neither beast nor madman?  
  
I was thankful that the witches holed up in the storehouse at the end of the Lane were much less ambiguous. They'd sewn eyes by their nerves all over their clothes, and I was happy enough to rend them into piles of rotting jelly. The constructs they summoned out of ash were somewhat less easily dealt with, but after a few deaths I got the hang of evading them. Watching them crumble to dust was satisfying, and soothed the remembered ache in my torso from their sickles.  
  
I looted the storehouse as best as I could, moving side small piles of mummified corpses not yet burnt. I managed to find a small cask of a grey, powdery sand, and I dearly hoped it was what Djura wanted, because most everything else in the building was already broken open and spilled, or had been unwisely placed beneath a corpse that hadn't finished drying out yet. Scattered on a table in the basement, next to a pair of what looked unsettlingly like ice cream scoops, was a small collection of thin metal plates with something not-quite calligraphy etched into them. It made the space behind my forehead itch to look at them too long, so I bundled them into a pocket and resolved to show them to Gehrman. It seemed like the kind of thing he'd be interested in.  
  
When I got back to the Dream, however, he'd vanished from the cottage again. I left the plates on the workbench and the cask near a gravestone, with firm instructions to the Little Ones not to mess with it, then wandered into the paths behind the workshop. Gehrman had placed his chair back under an old tree, and his hat was tipped low under his eyes. I very nearly let him be, but I saw his lips move, muttering in his sleep. Curiosity made me creep forward on silent feet. How was Gehrman sleeping inside a Dream? When I finally got within arm's length, I could make out his sleep-slurred murmurings.  
  
"Laurence... Master Willem... what's taking so long. I'm so tired, please..."  
  
He went on, in the nonsensical way that sleepers do, but I think I stopped hearing him. My thoughts were elsewhere, in a garden without moonlight, with the scents of melancholy and regret. I was putting pieces together, and the image that was forming frightened me. The Doll had told me, when I first awakened here, that the graves all around were monuments for former hunters. Gehrman was the Hunter's Helper, a mentor and friend to all who passed through this Dream.  
  
There were hundreds of graves here.  
  
I crept up closer, and stood behind the old man's chair, and wrapped my arms around him. In time, he quieted, and his breaths came slow and smooth.  
  
There were hundreds of graves here. But mine would not join them, not until I'd done everything I could to see my friend and mentor wake up.  
  
  
  
  
Alfred was in his usual place, kneeling before a small shrine some small ways from the Cathedral Ward. He looked up when I approached, and his face brightened.   
  
"Ah, Miss Hunter! Always a pleasure to see you. How goes your hunt?"  
  
"Hit a bit of a setback, but I'll get past it. In the meantime, maybe you could help me with something, Alfred?"  
  
"Of course! What do you need?"  
  
"I need to know about a 'Laurence' and a 'Master Willem.' Do you know anything that might help me?"  
  
He did, in fact.   
  
He told me about Byrgenwerth.


	25. Chapter 25

**Brockton Bay (4)**

May 17

 

 

 

"When you told me you wanted to host a rally, Hookwolf, I thought you meant something in line with your usual. A brawl tournament, or the like. Or maybe something quieter, like a nice firebrand speech about the ABB dogs' recent clashing with the Merchant underbelly. Not _whatever the hell you think you're doing now_ , Hookwolf!"

 

Hookwolf's lips pulled back from his teeth in a grin. Max's tense voice continued over the cell phone. "Public castigation is a lovely theme and I would be willing to explore it further, but these things should be held _indoors_. What are you thinking? The PRT cannot ignore a gathering of that size for long, not when it's in the middle of the street. Are you _trying_ to provoke the Protectorate?"

 

"The Protectorate can bite me. They won't move in on me, not with so many 'civilians' around." He ran his tongue over his teeth, looking out at the gathered masses of believers, at the cleared space with several posts erected and waiting for the night's entertainment. He looked up at the night sky.

 

"Full moon tonight, you know."

 

There was a long, silent pause from the receiver. When he spoke again, Max Anders' voice was quiet. "...Brad. What are you doing?"

 

"Tying up a loose end." He tapped his thumb over the 'End Call' button.

 

 

 

 

Out in the center of the crowd, pairs of men dragged the bait to the stakes; some nigger bitch, a spick, the spick's asian boytoy. Each was led to one of the wooden posts, then lashed tightly to it with thick ropes. A ripple of excitement spread through the gathering as everyone assembled smelled blood in the water. Even the dogs Hookwolf had brought, leashed to the stage, started to growl. Hookwolf felt his power stir under his skin, and after a half moment of thought, he let it spread and grow. The bait, watching him, began to sob with renewed terror.

 

Hookwolf let his body shift and grow under his power, tweaking a claw here or a ridge of steel spines there, and let one of his underlings handle the commencement of the night's festivities. Alcohol and rhetoric started to flow freely. Lost somewhere in his chest, his cell phone buzzed, then quieted, and went to voicemail. The bright circle of the moon started to rise over the buildings.

 

Less than an hour after the party began, the dogs started to bark. Then to howl, and bay, and strain against their bonds.

 

* * *

 

At 10:57 PM, the PRT received a call from a 'concerned citizen' about a large group of men and women gathered on South 17th street that, they suspected, might be gang members.

 

At 11:23 PM, more calls started coming in, with claims that Hookwolf was presiding over a public Empire rally.

 

At 11:32 PM, the PRT's lines strained to deal with the number of panicked transfers from the BBPD response hotline, in addition to direct calls from citizens. The rally had turned violent.

 

At 11:37 PM, four PRT transport vans roared down the empty streets, laden with two dozen armed troopers equipped with riot gear and foam sprayers, and accompanied by four Protectorate heroes: Armsmaster, Triumph, Assault, and Battery. One after another, the vans veered a hard right onto South 17th and screeched to a stop, the four squads disembarking with quick efficiency. Triumph left the van with them, but even before his feet hit the pavement, he doubted that two dozen troopers would be enough to contain _this_.

 

The rally had long since crumbled into chaos, both active gangers and passive supporters breaking ranks and scattering to the winds. A few of the bolder ones had stuck around to support their leader, but a half-dozen bisected bodies, sheared neatly in twain, were the only testament to the Empire's loyalty. As Triumph watched, the long, flat-bladed tail that Hookwolf had formed scythed through the air and into a streetlight, crumpling the pole and tearing it from the concrete in a single swipe. The strike's real target had moved forward, rolling under the blow and coming up for a counterstrike at the changer cape's bladed flank.

 

Bloodmoon had gotten here first.

 

Her signature saw was absent, and in its place the cape had a long-handled hammer with a hammer of its own, the mechanism like it had been taken from an oversized pistol. As Bloodmoon rolled under the scything tail, she struck the hammer's mechanism against the pavement, prompting the business end of the weapon to ignite with a sullen glow. She brought the hammer up and left in a wide arc against the joint of Hookwolf's hip and---

 

**SHRA-KOOOM**

 

\---Hookwolf's side _detonated_ , warped shrapnel spraying out in all directions, and Triumph heard the Empire cape shriek in anger. He lurched away on three legs, the fourth already reforming itself, and swung his tail around for another attempt. Bloodmoon dodged this one as well, her uncanny speed carrying her just out of range, but the tail smashed into the building next to her and rained down shattered bricks on top of her. Triumph heard Battery curse just behind him.

 

"If we don't stop them, they're gonna bring down a building sooner or later!"

 

"Then we don't give them the chance. Move in!" Armsmaster unholstered his halberd from his back and charged. The rest of the heroes followed, Triumph feeling his power swell in his chest. As soon as he was close enough, he sucked in a breath and _bellowed_. Pebbles and bits of broken concrete jumped from the reverberations, and Hookwolf stumbled when the shockwave of Triumph's voice hit him. Battery was ready, spending her accumulated charge on a burst of speed to tap the staggered parahuman with force comparable to a small car. When Hookwolf swung his beastly head around, Triumph shouted strongly enough to shake loose a few blades from the parahuman's jaw. The shards that fell were darker in color, unevenly formed, closer to wrought iron than Hookwolf's merciless steel. Triumph spared a second to glance at the parahuman's sides: yes, there at the joint of the hip, and another section where the ribs would be, were a few blades and razors dull and dark as soot. Just a few, nowhere near the corruption that had eroded Hookwolf's jaw, but...

 

Triumph felt a bead of sweat trace down his neck as he watched Battery unload half a charge on the side of Hookwolf's neck, only denting the metal hide. Hookwolf made a sound like rending metal and swatted Battery away, before tensing his hind legs and leaping, up and over Triumph.

 

 

A small ways down the street, Armsmaster and Assault were attempting to tag-team Bloodmoon, with marginally more success. Armsmaster's initial charge took Bloodmoon by surprise, the blade of his halberd scoring a long red wound across the murderous cape's arm when she turned to try and track Hookwolf's movements. The Tinker heard her make a wordless, surprised sound. She swung her hammer in a wide arc, but instead of backing out of range, Armsmaster stepped forward, just to the left of Bloodmoon where the hammer's projected arc would fall short. He saw the girl's eyes widen behind her glasses.

 

The spectacles snapped under the swift left hook that Armsmaster delivered to her face. She staggered, glasses clattering to the pavement, then quickstepped back twice away from the tinker, the movements carrying her almost the entire width of the street.

 

"Ahh-HH! No! What are you doing, the beast is over _there_!"

 

"But the criminal is right _here_!" Assault snapped, rebounding off of a building to hurtle towards Bloodmoon. She sidestepped, as expected, but Assault bounced off the brick building behind her and slammed his weight into her back. She pitched forward into the street and rolled, and when she scrambled to her feet she swung an arm down sharply and triggered the mechanism on her hammer. She brought the weapon down in an overhead smash, and the street between her and Armsmaster exploded in a bright plume of fire and melting asphalt.

 

"Stop! Stop! This is-- this is my HUNT!" She swung the hammer around again, its furnace thankfully still snuffed, and this time she took Armsmaster full in the side, and he was flung away with rib-cracking force.

 

"You're-- you're supposed to-- no, no, no! _Get out of my way_!"

 

She darted towards Assault, triggering her hammer's furnace again, and then abruptly spun around on one booted heel. Hookwolf came crashing down less than three feet from where she stopped, his sheer weight sending cracks and splinters through the concrete below him. Assault wasn't sure if he'd ever seen the Empire cape assuming a larger form, and when he opened his wolfish maw the throat of iron teeth looked big enough to swallow a man whole.

 

Bloodmoon brought her hammer down on Hookwolf's metal skull, the explosion triggering with a deafening **BOOM,** and the parahuman's neck came apart in a spray of knives. The empty, beastlike head clattered to the ground.

 

Triumph and Battery were close behind, the former shouting and knocking Hookwolf's legs out from under him. The cape squirmed, metal form shifting in a most unsettling fashion as his legs simply slid back underneath into their proper arrangement once again. The metal stump of his neck was blackened and sluggish, not reforming as it should have. He bounded to one side and crashed into a building, claws scraping and stumbling as though the loss of his head had actually disoriented him, or perhaps Triumph's bellowing had blown what accounted for an inner ear in the shifting mass of metal. Even clumsy, Hookwolf's intentions were clear enough: finally outnumbered, he was disengaging.

 

Bloodmoon had no intention of letting him escape. She darted forward and broke into a run, Battery missing her by inches. But with her back turned, she didn't spot Armsmaster taking aim, and she was not quick enough to escape his effective range. Guided by his helmet's targeting assist, Armsmaster pointed the butt of his halberd at the cape's fleeing back, and the weapon shot out a pair of darts. Bloodmoon stumbled for a bare second, then kept running.

 

"Second generation sedative, she won't be up much longer. Catch them!"

 

Bloodmoon kept chasing Hookwolf, who couldn't seem to keep his legs under him. The hip that had been blown apart earlier had darkened, the metal warping and growing stiff and brittle. His neck still had not regrown. He swung the flat edge of his tail at his pursuer, and was rewarded with a leaping strike by Bloodmoon, the hammer blowing apart half the appendage to send shrapnel skittering across the street. The return swipe of the jagged edge caught Bloodmoon's coat and tossed her away, leaving a bright splash of red on the tail's stump. Steam rose from the dripping liquid.

 

The heroes were close behind when Bloodmoon staggered forward, hand swiping once at the air beside her, then finally alighting on a dark coil at her waist. A quick twist and the grappling hook swung free, spun, and was sent flying.

 

_Cli-clink!_

 

Unbelievably, as soon as the hook was set in Hookwolf's back, Bloodmoon tossed the rope away, saying, "Pull it! Pull it pull it pull it!"

 

The rope landed near to Triumph's feet, and he jumped over it. Had she actually expected them to assist? The heroes had by now fanned out, spread across the street as they ran, to prevent either Hookwolf or Bloodmoon changing direction and retreating. As it happened, Assault was the furthest back, so he had the clearest view of what was happening when the discarded rope suddenly went taut, phased straight into the sidewalk.

 

Hookwolf jerked back, the grappling hook tugging on his shoulderblades, and Bloodmoon put on a last burst of speed and closed the distance, one hand snapping upwards to trigger the detonator in her weapon. She jumped, grabbed for the tight stretch of rope, and swung herself up onto Hookwolf's back. Assault swore he could almost hear Clockblocker from here. _No one_ was this crazy.

 

  
**SHRA-KOOOM!** Parts of Hookwolf's spine exploded outwards. Bloodmoon steadied herself, and tripped her hammer's trigger again, bringing the weapon down into the crater she had made.

 

  
**SHRA-KOOOM!** Hookwolf's shoulderblades partially detached themselves, became much more literal, and stabbed upwards. One sliced through Bloodmoon's leg, through the femoral artery, and blood rained down into Hookwolf's ribs.

 

  
_**SHRA-KOOOM!**_ Silvery liquid splattered over Bloodmoon and the haft of her hammer. Hookwolf made a sound like groaning steel, stumbled, and collapsed, his core coming apart. His human body formed from the liquid metal and dropped, motionless, into the curved ribcage. The crimson shed from Bloodmoon painted the metal cage in pooling shadows, wisps of smoke and a few stray bubbles rising from the liquid, scoring any of Hookwolf's steel that it touched.

 

Bloodmoon herself had fallen from Hookwolf's back when he collapsed, and Assault caught up in time to see her stagger into the nearest alleyway, maimed leg leaving a trail of blood behind her.

 

When he followed, the trail ended in a small puddle just a few feet into the passage. Bloodmoon was already gone.


	26. Chapter 26

**Taylor (13)**  
May 10  
  
  
Djura finished his repairs on the weapon he promised after a few days passed in Brockton, and he gave me the long-handled hammer alongside a cursory explanation of its functions and a terse warning about where not to test it out, namely, anywhere nearby the Old Town. He didn't even have his shotgun at the ready, though, which made me think that perhaps the old Hunter was warming up to me. I made a mental note to go find him a present later. In the meantime, I followed Alfred's directions through the twisty passageways south of the Grand Cathedral's plaza. The collegiate of Byrgenwerth lay in the depths of the Forbidden Woods, which was not their proper name but rather a more recent title. I was rather confused on why that was, exactly, and in what order the events prompting the change occurred. Alfred said that the Healing Church had banned citizens from the woods and Byrgenwerth entirely, though he didn't know the reason why the Church had instated the policy, particularly as, he said, the sacred tombs were below the college's main structures. Gehrman, when prompted, declared that the main entrance to the woods had been barred and sealed by members of Byrgenwerth, but that I had already learned the password for entry if I cared to remember it. I was fairly certain I had a good guess, but that didn't explain anything about the situation.  
  
Of course, since I live in Brockton Bay, it didn't take me long to clue in on what I suspected was the true answer: politics. Dirty politics. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. I pushed the matter aside and resolved to focus on my goal of investigating the Hunter's Dream.  
  
I found the large door just where Alfred had said it would be. I needed a present for him too, I thought. The affable Executioner had been of frequent help to me, and I wanted some way to repay the favor and friendship. I lifted the heavy knocker, but before I could rap it against the door, a thready voice called out to me from behind it: "The password," it requested.  
  
"Fear the Old Blood," I recited. The adage of the Healing Church, preserved even after the split between Laurence and Willem. I heard a heavy bar slide, on the other side of the door, and when nobody spoke further I gripped the handle and pulled the ornate portal open.  
  
Mr. Nobody was on the other side, a decaying skeleton with wisps of colorless hair and a rictus grin. I shivered, and moved on.  
  
The Forbidden Woods were dark and lovely. The moonlight that shone down on Yharnam seemed much more in tune with a place like this than with the broken stones of the Old Town, or the contorted statuettes of Yharnam proper. The woods covered a long stretch of cliffside, and according to rumor the college was nearer the bottom. I couldn't see any signs of it from the small clearing at the top of the cliff, just a steep, narrow path into the trees, and a small stone building with an iron gate. I tugged on the gate, experimentally. Locked, of course. I sighed, and resigned myself to doing this the hard way.  
  
I swung the Boom Hammer around like a shotput, and struck the padlock on the gate with all the force a Powder Keg could muster. The lock exploded, as did half of the iron gate and several inches of the masonry next to it. I tugged open the remains of the door with no small amount of satisfaction, and stepped inside.  
  
"Well, you're an enterprising one, aren't you?"  
  
Inside the building--which, to my delight, looked like a cargo elevator--was a man in an official uniform and a bucket helm. I approached, with a pointed look at his hands kept serenely on his cane, and he made an approving noise at my caution.  
  
"You're a new face. And a Hunter, it would seem. I am Valtr, Master of the League."  
  
"Should I know what that is?"  
  
"All Hunters should. The League is sworn to cleanse the streets of the filth that plagues it; the beasts, the slugs, the madmen." He spoke about human corruption, and the Hunt, and I don't think I have ever heard before or since anyone speak with such intensity. The sheer conviction he carried... even if he hadn't been giving voice to my own thoughts and doubts, I think I would have wanted to impress him, to gain his approval. As Master of the League, he offered me purpose, and companionship, and God help me if this isn't how the E88 got started. I agreed immediately.  
  
"Most excellent. Now, take this-- the League's own Caryll rune. Commit it to heart, it will aid your Hunt, and be a beacon for your fellow Confederates." He handed me something very familiar. It was a thin metal plate, with a symbol etched into it. I still had a collection of them in my coat's pocket, taken from the Witch of Hemwick. The mark emblazoned on it kind of looked like a ladybug, I thought.  
  
"Oh. Is that what these are? What's a Caryll rune, exactly?"  
  
Master Valtr was silent for a moment, before he tipped back his head and laughed.  
  
"You ARE new, aren't you? And to have come so far, unaided by Caryll's legacy? Well, I think I can spare a moment for a new Confederate. Here, let me show you."  
  
Runes, he explained to me, were pictograms meant to represent concepts used by the gods. Meaning and effect were as one, it seemed, and the 'written words' could be focused upon to tune an individual towards those meanings. Here was  <Communion>, to facilitate communication of meaning. This one was <Lake>, which granted a touch of a Brute's durability; in fact I had several variations of <Lake>, which combined in exciting ways. I couldn't wait to meditate upon them and see what happened. And last was <Impurity>, which Valtr had granted me. It allowed the one who held it within them to spot the corruption within others, which seemed a very vague description, until at Valtr's request I tried it.  
  
I focused on the shape of the Rune, imagined it taking form in that burning itch behind my eyes.  
  
"Now, be cautious," Valtr warned. "The <Impurity> rune will focus on corruption as you see it. I once had a Confederate who busied himself in hunting down the killers of children. A worthwhile task, of course, but he focused so much on it that Impurity did not spark light in the filth-ridden criminal that killed him. That one had only killed adults, you see." I nodded, and thought hard.  
  
What was a Beast, to me? Villains, certainly, but that was such a broad description. Criminals... well, there was a difference between petty theft and grand larceny. And, like the madwomen of the charnel houses, there were degrees of violence and death as well.  
  
"Enjoyment of violence," I said, at length. "And disregard for the lives of others." That would cover the worst of the beasts and Villains in the Bay, I thought. I felt the Rune take shape, solidify.  
  
"An interesting choice for a Hunter." I looked at Valtr, saw the glowing sigil of <Impurity> hovering over his stomach, and blinked. "Ah, you see it now? Good. The Rune marks Confederates, in addition to its other task." He paused, for a moment, and I saw him looking closely at me from the single eye of his helmet. "You've the <Hunter> mark on you, and it shines brightly. You're on a Great Hunt, aren't you? Excellent, most excellent. It has been too long. But it makes you distant. I suspect you'll be of limited help to your Confederates until the Hunt is over, but you'll do good work in the meantime."  
  
He stared at me for a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision. He reached into a small satchel at his waist, and withdrew a large, handheld bell, and held it out to me.  
  
"Here, Hunter. Use this to call willing aid to you. <Impurity> will guide your fellows to whatever dream that bell rings out in. Remember, the Confederates will always have my blessing, and each other. Always."  
  
With Valtr's blessing, I left and spent time in the deeper reaches of the Forbidden Woods. As he'd warned, <Impurity> did not shine on many of the enemies I found there. The conjoined nests of snakes weren't sentient enough to count, I think, and likewise the infested men had been overtaken by the territorial serpents. The beastmen glowed a bit, however, and I felt giddy excitement as I beheld the Rune's work. I could see the glowing outline of the scourged beasts even through the walls of their shacks, and lines of trees, like heat vision for violent intent. This would make hunting in Brockton so much easier.  
  
The full moon was next week, after all.  
  
I was looking forward to it.


	27. Chapter 27

  
**PRT (5)**  
May 19  
  
  
"It doesn't make any _sense_." Colin scrubbed his hands through short-cropped hair with an aggravated sigh. He was currently in his office, with desk and sparse furniture shoved against the walls to make room for pacing back and forth while gesturing at a whiteboard. It was becoming an increasingly common habit. Dragon's avatar was displayed on a monitor tacked to the far wall, her expression sympathetic.  
  
"Parahumans often don't, Colin."  
  
"They do, actually. There's always a logical reason for things, even if the logic is sideways. But this--" He waved his dry-erase marker in the direction of the whiteboard, "--never fits quite like it should."  
  
The board in question was covered in different colors of marker, lines connecting sticky-notes and photographs of events, dates, numbers, and unanswered questions. At the top was the name 'Bloodmoon' written in stark black. There were notes about her perceived abilities, and dates of her appearances, and what had changed between them. The newest was not, unfortunately, the Hookwolf debacle that had occurred a day and a half ago. No, that award went to the current clusterfuck that was Shadow Stalker breaking into his lab and stealing a sample of the violent cape's blood. Colin could still feel Piggot breathing down his neck, absolutely incensed that he hadn't noticed the break-in until yesterday, after he'd finally woken up from the exhausted spiral the Hookwolf situation and subsequent paperwork and cleanup organization had put him into.  
  
Hell, Colin was pretty furious at himself, as well. His security measures had failed, both from the door's alarms being stepped around entirely and... whatever trickery had occurred with the sample itself. Stalker herself had dropped completely off the map, her mother hadn't seen her since the morning of the 17th, and while the other Wards had been briefed on the basics of her disappearance and the PRT had agents discretely combing the city, trying to corner a parahuman is difficult at the best of times. Cornering movement-adapted Breaker like Shadow Stalker was worse, never mind the scramble of M/S protocols this was kicking up.  
  
"Hostile cape, designation Bloodmoon, effective rating unknown." He began again, ignoring Dragon's concerned frown. "Current pattern of behavior limits sightings to nights of the full moon, but the exact criteria has not remained static; first attributed death in February occurred on a single night, as did the deaths in March. In April Bloodmoon was sighted two nights in a row, during one she was supposedly 'killed' at an Empire dog-fighting ring. In May she was sighted three nights in a row, from the 16th to the 18th, attacking a different target each night; first a Merchant gathering, then the Empire rally with Hookwolf, and last night a small group of ABB who were out collecting their protection racket." Colin tapped the marker against his lips as he thought, a smudge of green joining the black, red, and blue already present. Dragon wasn't sure at what point she should tell him about it. "Bloodmoon does not discriminate between gang affiliation or racial lines."  
  
"Either she is getting more bold, and appearing more often, or--as the Protectorate thinkers agree--she has simply expanded her definition of 'full moon' to include the three brightest nights of the lunar calendar, where the moon appears completely full to anyone without a telescope."  
  
"It would fit with the rest of her atypical behavior," Dragon remarked. "She varies her targets and, presumably, patrol routes, instead of focusing on a personal agenda. There is no money or other resources taken from her victims. There's no grandstanding or desire for recognition, either, that I can see. Most villains acquire a PHO account at some point, but the few contenders for Bloodmoon's title have all been fakes. I'd consider her a particularly violent vigilante, really."  
  
"She hasn't deliberately gone after Heroes, true. Or at least not yet. She was perfectly happy to take a swing at me the other day, though." He grimaced at the reminder. "At least under that lens, her behavior makes sense. It's odd behavior, but she still obeys certain patterns."  
  
Colin made a frustrated noise, and his pacing quickened. "Her displayed abilities do not conform to typical pattern. Mid to minor Brute and Mover abilities, sure, but her disappearing act in April and the other night are anomalies. So is the apparent telekinesis and matter phasing, from Stalker's five-finger-discount and the grappling hook we dug out of the sidewalk. There are definite elements of Tinker work, with her custom weaponry, but also in her biological samples. The Brute and Mover could be explained by the apparent activated retrovirus I found in her blood, but then, where did that come from? A bio-Tinker is typically restricted to wet work and the tools to facilitate it, not blacksmithing. It's too far away from the specialty."  
  
"Not impossible, but I agree, unlikely. Her displayed abilities to date would suggest that she's a Mover or Breaker with the aid of a bio-Tinker, but her temperament doesn't seem very permissible of cooperation. There's also the fact that wet Tinkers don't tend to be very subtle once they get moving."  
  
"Unless she's the bio-Tinker, and she's purchased her weaponry from someone else."  
  
"But how does an engineered retrovirus explain the vanishing, the telekinesis, the matter phase shifts?" Dragon asked. "I see what you mean about it not making sense."  
  
"And that's before we even touch any Master/Stranger effects. Beaker from out in California sent back the sample I gave her for analysis. Said she wanted nothing to do with, quote, 'Crazy skull-shaped blood bubbles.'" Dragon took a few microseconds to look up the email in question, and frowned.  
  
"Colin, I hate to say it, but I think that we don't have the full picture, here. You can't assemble a jigsaw if you don't have all the edges."  
  
"But getting any more pieces means waiting for her to show up. Piggot wants answers now, and frankly so do I."  
  
"Well... Tinker approach, Colin. If you don't have an edge, make an edge."  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
Ethan stretched, fingers clawing at the ceiling and several satisfying _pop!_ sounds coming from his back and shoulders. The librarian at the Returns desk, still holding his borrowed copy of  Mockingjay, gave him an amused look over her half-moon glasses. Apparently Earth Aleph was making a movie series, and Puppy wanted to read the books first; she was still feeling too bruised from Hookwolf's little love tap the other night to return the book herself, so Ethan had volunteered to handle it. He gave a jaunty parting wave to the librarian and sauntered out of the library, every bit the picture of a man with a lazy day off from work, but he kept his eyes moving, checking the people around him. It was unlikely for Sophia to show up here, but it was unlikely for her to show up anywhere, really. So there was no harm in checking.  
  
Ethan strolled out the main doors into the warm May sunshine, stretched again for the hell of it, then started down the bright steps. About halfway down he spotted a dark-haired girl sitting next to a duffel bag, and with a start he recognized the thick curls and thin frame. He stepped closer to get a better look.  
  
Sure enough, there was Taylor, the stray from the Boardwalk. Drab hoodie, listless expression and all. She wasn't wearing her glasses today, it seemed, and she had a book on paints sitting unopened on her lap as she stared out at the crowds bustling around the street. Ethan called out to her.  
  
"Hey, Taylor! Fancy seeing you here. Today's Thursday, aren't you supposed to be in school still?"  
  
Her head whipped around to face him, sending her hair flying out over her shoulder. Green eyes stayed opened wide for a tense second, before she relaxed slightly and blinked a little.  
  
"Oh... Mr. Ethan, right? Hi." She gave him a wan smile, and Ethan settled down on the step next to her, leaving her about a foot of space for comfort.  
  
"Little high strung today?"  
  
"Sorry. I just-- a little, yeah." Her bitten-off nails scraped at the cover of her book. "Didn't recognize you, at first. My glasses are broken, heh. I remembered your voice, though... I think I remember hearing you a couple days ago, even. Were you out and about?"  
  
"Probably," Ethan replied, "I do get around a bit." She nodded, and a quiet stretched between them. She hadn't answered about her school, but Ethan hadn't forgotten his visit to Winslow. If she wanted to put it aside for now, he wouldn't pry. "Book of paints? For your friend... G-something?"  
  
"Wh-- oh! No, no. I wanted to look up something for a different friend... I'm looking for paint that won't melt."  
  
"Kinda offbeat request, there."  
  
She nodded, but her smile returned as the conversation shifted to a pleasant topic. "Alfred-- his name's Alfred. He's... spiritual, I guess, and he's got a favorite saint. Have you seen those glass candles, with saints on them?" Ethan nodded, after a moment's thought. Usually in cheap convenience stores, but he'd seen them. "His favorite saint isn't on any, but I've seen blank ones... I thought I could get him some, and he could paint them how he liked, for his prayers."  
  
"That's a very thoughtful gift, Taylor."  
  
"You think so? I kinda... worried it'd be... presumptuous, maybe? I don't know much about Martyr Logarius, but it was all I could think of."  
  
"Even if he hasn't thought to get a candle, or even use one, I'm sure he'll recognize the good intent. Thoughtful gifts have a way of being appreciated, even when unexpected. You're doing a good thing, Taylor." The teen fell silent, and started to chew on her lower lip.  
  
"Mr. Ethan? Can I ask... kinda a weird question?"  
  
"Shoot, kiddo."  
  
"If..." She paused, bit down a bit harder. "If someone... wanted to hurt me, or fight me... but I don't want to fight them... what-- what should I do?"  
  
_A 'weird' question_ , Ethan thought. _Try 'leading.'_  
  
"Well, Taylor... I would try asking for help from the proper authorities. Your principal, or the police..." She shook her head.  
  
"I can't."  
  
"Why not?" She didn't answer. Ethan thought back to Winslow, and frowned.  
  
"Well... if that's not an option, then-- I'd find a way to leave the situation, you know? There's a lot of ways to feel trapped, but there's always ways out, too, if we look for them. Help from friends, or family, maybe. If even the police can't help, the PRT's got a lot of people who can help. S'a hero's job, that's what they're there for."  
  
But Taylor drew her knees up closer to her chest, and wrapped her arms around herself. "But... what if the Heroes don't want to help me?"  
  
"Heroes always want to help, Taylor. It's why they become heroes in the first place. Why wouldn't they help you?"  
  
"...what if-- what if they--" She stopped, but after a breath she continued, her voice very quiet. "What if I'm not a very good person, Mr. Ethan?"  
  
Ethan thought very carefully about how to word his response. He stretched out a hand, put it lightly on Taylor's shoulder, and said, "I don't think I've ever met someone who was really a bad person, Taylor. Just... people who have made bad decisions. Anyone could be a good person, if they tried." He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "And I don't think it's ever really too late to try." Taylor bowed her head, hiding behind her hair.  
  
"...do you want me to take you to the PRT, Taylor? I know some people. I'll stay with you, all the way."  
  
Taylor shook her head, sniffled, and tucked her hair back behind her ear.  
  
"Okay. Well, if you change your mind, or-- if you need someone to talk to, here." He dug through a pocket, finding a pen and the only paper scrap he had-- the receipt from renting Mockingjay a week ago, Puppy had used it as a bookmark. He scribbled a series of numbers on it, then held it out to Taylor. She scrubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, then accepted it.  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Ethan. I'll... I'll think about what you said, okay? I'll be okay." She smiled, and if it was a bit watery, at least it was there.  
  
"I'll be okay."

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**PRT (6)**  
May 23  
  
  
  
Velocity zipped through the Protectorate building, a manila folder clutched protectively under one arm, only slowing down when he needed to enter doors or turn a corner. It wouldn't do to ram into someone by accident, after all. He slowed for security checkpoints too, of course, of which there were now many. The Director was stepping up and locking down on anything she could think of, though privately, Velocity didn't think the new measures would stick around forever. But with the grief and horror over Shadow Stalker so fresh, a lot of Velocity's coworkers were trying to find ways to cope, and often that meant finding some measure of control.  
  
He didn't blame them at all. Velocity was guilty of it too, if it was something to be guilty for. He'd gone with Armsmaster to deliver the news to Mrs. Hess this morning.  
  
He'd bowed out when Armsmaster had decided to search the late Miss Hess's room and belongings, though. He had his limits. So, he'd thrown himself into the next project, equal parts eager to help take some of the strain off of his coworkers, and desperate for a distraction. As it turned out, that meant taking most of the day doing errands at normal speed, which was not conductive to keeping himself away from his thoughts. He hoped the results were worth it.  
  
He reached Assault's office and slowed down to base speed, then knocked. Assault opened the door, looking about as well-rested as anyone else lately: not at all. "Hey man. What'd ya need?"  
  
He held up the folder. "I got what you asked for."  
  
"Wh-- all of it?" Assault stood up a bit straighter. "Records and the warrant?" Velocity nodded, and a tense smile spread across Assault's face. "Great! C'mon, let's get Militia in here and see what we can see, hm?"  
  
Velocity busied himself with Assault's well-used coffee maker while Assault called their coworker. To his surprise, Militia arrived before the sweet nectar had finished brewing. Maybe she was a desperate for distraction as he was, if not moreso. Even fitful as it was these past couple of days, at least Velocity got to tune out the world and sleep for a third of the day. Militia didn't even have that. By unspoken agreement, the three of them puttered about until the coffee was served and the door shut.  
  
"So, catch me up," Robin said, taking off his mask once he saw Hannah doing the same. Ethan followed suit, though Robin realized belatedly that Hannah kind of had to remove her scarf if she wanted to drink anything. "What's all this about, what are we looking for?"  
  
"Taylor Hebert, student at Winslow High. Started looking into her on suspicion of abuse a while back, but her teachers were dodgy as hell. Let's look over the medical stuff first."  
  
"It's pretty bare." Hannah was already flipping through the thin collection of pages. "Record of immunizations, no surgeries-- huh, one ER encounter, back in January. No injuries listed, but she was given antibiotics, pretty high-powered ones too."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"You said January?" Robin was looking at a page he'd had to jump a lot of hoops to get. Thankfully, his civilian job at the BPPD was pretty lenient on his PRT Business. "I've got a police report here, from Tuesday the fourth."  
  
Hannah checked the hospital transcript. "Same date."  
  
Robin was reading the report with a growing expression of disgust. "Man, what the fuck. Says she was allegedly shoved into her school locker on Monday, at Winslow High School. Locker was found to be filled with-- you're shitting me-- Biohazardous waste with possible bloodborne contagion."  
  
" _What?!_ "  
  
"No charges filed." Robin shoved the report onto the desk, not even wanting to touch it. "School officials said there were no witnesses."  
  
"Shit. This is exactly what I was afraid of." Ethan was rubbing his hands over his face.  
  
"Her school files," Hannah murmured. "They'd been emptied. Ethan-- this is looking like a coverup."  
  
"That, and more than that." He sighed. "I saw her a couple days ago, and-- a couple things she said... well, that mess sounds like grounds for a trigger event, doesn't it?"   
  
"Oh. Oh dear. What did she say that made you think this?"  
  
"Said she couldn't go to her school for help--which is painting a pretty fucking bad picture of Blackwell, by the way--but that she also couldn't go to the PRT."  
  
"A lot of new parahumans turn to villainy, but aside from Bloodmoon there haven't been any major incidents with new parahumans. If she has triggered, we could probably get her to come in."  
  
"Maybe, but I kinda get the impression she doesn't much like authority."  
  
"Hey, hold that thought a sec, can I see that hospital report?" Hannah passed it over to Robin, who looked between it and the police report. "That's... odd."  
  
"Well no shit. But what specifically?"  
  
"She was given antibiotics, pill and injection, but that's it." Robin tapped the police report with a finger. "If she was locked in on Monday and only got out on Tuesday, she should have been dehydrated. Hospital would have given her an IV."  
  
"Possible evidence of a healing factor, I supp-- Ethan?"  
  
Ethan was staring at the table, and the scattered papers over it. His skin had grown pale.  
  
"A healing factor, that's... one idea." He said. "There's another, but I'm not sure I want to say it."  
  
"What?"  
_  
"Didn't recognize you, at first. My glasses are broken, heh. I remembered your voice, though... I think I remember hearing you a couple days ago, even."_  
  
Tall, with long, dark hair and glasses.   
  
_"But... what if the Heroes don't want to help me?"_  
  
"A healing factor... or she pulled a disappearing act." Robin put it together first, pressing his hands flat on the table.  
  
"Damn. God _damn_." Assault whispered. "We need to check her home. _Right now_."  
  
* * *  
  
The Hebert home was small, and a little run-down, with a functional but ugly car parked in the driveway. It wasn't really kosher to show up in a PRT van at a civilian dwelling, or in costume, but if the horrible suspicion Assault had shared turned out to be true, they were going to need the associated gear. Velocity grabbed a whole belt of foam grenades before the three of them walked up to the front door, Assault mistakenly stepping on a loose board and nearly breaking the short stairs. His startled cursing sufficed for a knock, it seemed, because a middle-aged man opened the door.   
  
"Uh... hello? Can I help you?"  
  
"Mr. Hebert?" Miss Militia asked.  
  
"Yes, that's me." Mr. Hebert was quite calm for a man with three heroes on his broken doorstep.  
  
"Sorry to intrude on you this evening. We were... hoping to speak with your daughter, Taylor. Is she home?"  
  
"Oh, I'm not sure... she might be up in her room." He made a vague gesture towards the back of the house. "Here, why don't you come in? I was making dinner, I'd rather not leave the stove alone too long."  
  
"Oh, of course. Ah, thank you."  
  
"It's no problem at all. Can I offer you something to drink? I've got, uh, tea, or water, or orange juice."  
  
"We're fine, thanks." The heroes filed into the house after Mr. Hebert. "So, you're not sure if your daughter is home?"  
  
"Well, Taylor's a quiet kid, and she likes her space. She hasn't come downstairs, but I've only just got off of work. She might be out and about still."  
  
"Oh, I see." Miss Militia's grip on her power's Bowie knife relaxed a bit. "We'd actually like to go take a look at her room. We have a warrant, Mr. Hebert."  
  
"It's at the top of the stairs, to the right." Mr. Hebert responded, as he made a beeline for his stir fry-in-progress. Velocity, Assault, and Miss Militia tarried in the hallway for a moment, exchanging a glance.  
  
"Something's not right. Velocity, keep an eye on him. Militia and I will check upstairs." Velocity nodded, and headed towards the kitchen while Assault and Militia started up the stairs.   
  
"Sooo, Mr. Hebert! What's cookin'?"  
  
"Oh, just a stir-fry. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid..."  
  
* * *  
  
Assault and Miss Militia listened at the closed door for a tense minute, not hearing any sounds of occupancy, before finally trying the knob. The door opened smoothly, revealing a normal, if somewhat spartan bedroom.  
  
"Not here... well, that's a mixed blessing. Let's check it out." Militia nodded, slipped on a pair of thin vinyl gloves, and started on the bookshelf. Assault did the same, for the nightstand.  
  
"No diary. Just a flashlight and some pencils."  
  
"Lots of fiction over here, half of it classical."  
  
Assault got down onto the floor and peeked under the bed. "Tidy kid. Nothing under here, check the desk yet? ...Militia?" He got back to his feet, turned towards Miss Militia who was standing at the cluttered desk. She was looking closely at a pair of papers taped to the wall. They were yellowish, thicker than notebook paper. They almost looked like parchment.  
  
"I cannot escape the dream," Militia read aloud. "There may be a way out if I go on. I need blood." She swallowed. Assault moved over to the desk as well, then to the closet. "Blood makes me stronger. Blood is dangerous... I feel strange under the moon..." She turned her eyes down, onto the desk proper. It was covered in scattered notebook paper, roughly torn into pieces, and on every scrap was the word ESCAPE.  
  
"Is this conclusive enough?"  
  
"I dunno. But that is." Assault had opened the closet doors, and he pointed at the contents. Inside, neatly hung on the rack, was a longcoat very similar to Bloodmoon's. It was lacking the cape's frequent blood splatters, but it had been fitted with a short mantle about the shoulders. There was also a long, silver-colored scarf draped over a hanger, and a set of boots on the floor, next to a plastic tote filled with small, corked bottles full of a dark red liquid.  
  
"We need to call this in. Call Armsmaster, call--" His phone buzzed in his pocket. Assault checked it on reflex. "...and we need to get downstairs. Velocity says something's wrong."   
  
They got back downstairs as quickly as possible, only to find Velocity sitting at the Hebert's kitchen table, a fixed smile on his face. He lifted one hand to beckon them into the kitchen; the other hand was gripping the table's edge with white-knuckled tension. "Sooo, Mr. Hebert! What's cookin'?" He said, voice full of false cheer.  
  
"Oh, just a stir-fry. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid. My wife was the only one with any talent for it, but I try my best."  
  
"Ah-huh." Velocity paused, then said again, "Sooo, Mr. Hebert! What's cookin'?"   
  
"Oh, just a stir-fry. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid..." Mr. Hebert repeated himself, not looking up from his work at the stove. Assault and Miss Militia edged towards the table, now giving the man a cautious berth. Velocity beckoned a little more pointedly.  
  
"His face," He hissed, once the pair got close enough. "Look at his _face_."  
  
"...Mr. Hebert, could you look at me for a minute?" Miss Militia's hand was back on her weapon. Mr. Hebert calmly turned to face her, one hand still holding his spatula. He looked the same as he had when he opened the door. Militia looked back at Velocity, who tapped one finger on his left cheek. She looked back at Mr. Hebert, peering closer. She abruptly stepped back, hitting the table with her legs. Mr. Hebert remained calm and vacant, his right eye fixed in Miss Militia's direction without seeming to see her. His left twitched and fidgeted in its socket, its gaze roaming. The iris had swollen slightly, bulged to make way for the second pupil that had opened up in it.   
  
"Mr. Hebert, maybe you'd... like to come with us." Assault was already thumbing his phone.   
  
"Oh, if you like. Just let me finish cooking. It's a stir-fry. I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid."


	29. Chapter 29

**Taylor (14)**  
May 20 - May 24  
  
  
I think Dad and I aren't so different, when it comes down to it. When times got tough, we buried ourselves in our work. Mine used to be the task of surviving Winslow. I suppose now it was still a task of survival, of keeping in the Hunt long enough to accomplish any other goals I set for myself. Reaching Byrgenwerth seemed like a good distraction away from Brockton Bay.  
  
The Forbidden Woods wasn't as much of a slog as I'd been led to believe by Alfred, but that might have been because I'd broken open the cargo elevator by Master Valtr. It was still a slog, certainly, but between my well-worn saw and the pleasing heft of my Boom Hammer, the snake shrubs and greater snake shrubs that lurked around the path were of little consequence. The infested villagers were considerably harder to deal with; with so many heads it was easier for them to notice me before I could sneak up, and their reach and the unpredictable movement of their many necks made attempts to parry their strikes with pistol or hammer unreliable. I eventually got the hang of it, but they slowed down my trek enough that I decided to simply push through rather than explore more thoroughly. I added the woods to my growing list of places to come back to. I still couldn't believe I'd left my grappling hook behind, snagged on Hookwolf's shoulders.  
  
I still couldn't believe I'd hit Armsmaster.  
  
I couldn't believe that he'd hit _me_.  
  
I tried not to think about it. I pushed forwards. I reached the bottom of the forested mountain.  
  
The woods had slowly given way to wider spaces, with rocky outgrowths and, more and more often, puddles. In the largest such opening, ringed on all sides by massive headstones, I saw the path ahead blocked by three figures. They were still and silent until I approached, close enough to attempt to make out their features: they had none. They were darkness, just shapes that happened to resemble men. When I approached, they drew weapons as one. Were they guardians of the forest? Of the college? Perhaps the vengeful dead, even? It didn't matter. I drew my saw.  
  
"Get out of my way."  
  
They hissed at me in response, and fanned out, seeking to flank me. It was good strategy, as until now I'd had only a little experience in fighting multiple combatants. I didn't count the angry beastmen, who moved in packs; they clustered together for the safety of numbers, fearful. These three were not a mob, but a team. And, to my surprise-- they were capes, or something similar. Excellent: I needed practice fighting capes. How delightful that they were willing to oblige me. I came at them, and disregarded the burns and cuts, and I fought and fought and fought until they broke. They did not bar my way again.  
  
It was a quiet hike after that. Even the trees seemed unwilling to disturb me, but the closer I got to the college, the more my skin crawled. I felt as though I were being watched by many eyes, from all directions. The feeling did not abate when I reached the grounds of the school itself, and I was feeling so unnerved that I battered down the gate with my hammer, rather than wander any further. It was a sturdy gate, but Djura's work was excellent; eventually, the lock gave, and I rushed to get away from the woods.  
  
Byrgenwerth was smaller than I'd imagined, just a single building hugging the last of the cliffs above a lake, but I reasoned that there must have been more of the school situated underground. I wasn't entirely wrong, but not right, either. It wasn't an issue for the moment, however. The building that was visible to me was some manner of research hall, the walls covered in shelves of books, and the floorspace dominated by tables and jars and cabinets of specimens. There was a rank smell of formaldehyde permeating the air, but I didn't let that stop me. The building was deserted, so I took my time.  
  
I couldn't find a mathematics section anywhere, but I found a great many books on anatomy of all sorts of creatures, as well as handwritten journals detailing dissections and experiments. One table still had its last experiment on it, sitting on a tray: the shell of some mollusk, I presumed. It was full of an oddly luminescent, pale slime, and it smelled... odd. Something not quite like moonlight. Starlight, I decided, after I held the shell to my nose for a minute or two, breathing it in. It smelled of starlight. I took it with me. The second floor was much like the first, except with a selection of moth-eaten couches. Just an abandoned student research building.  
  
Except every single specimen jar was filled with eyes. I was careful not to knock over any more jars, after my coat caught the first. The gelid globes rolling on the floor looked resentful of me. I apologized, but I don't think it helped.  
  
The second floor also held a large double-door, and I took the time to find the key to this one rather than destroying it; the key was labeled 'Lunarium,' but rather than hiding a machine, the door opened to reveal my quarry. I was surprised, to say the least. I only recognized Master Willem from that blood-colored vision I'd taken from the altar, in the Grand Cathedral. In truth, I hadn't expected him to be alive. He might not have been. But he was here, and that was what mattered. He was an old, old man, sitting in a rocking chair and so swathed in robes and embroidered cloths of station that only half his face and the tips of his fingers were visible. I approached him cautiously.  
  
"Master Willem? It's you, right? I need to ask you something." He only continued his sedate rocking, but I _felt_ his attention on me. It made my skin crawl.  
  
"Do you know Gehrman? He's... stuck in a dream. The Hunter's Dream. I think I am too. Do you know how to stop it?"  
  
His attention turned from me--I nearly shuddered with relief--and I felt his invisible gaze move back to the open expanse of the balcony. With one withered hand, he pointed. I followed his direction, but it led only to the edge of the balcony.  
  
"Master Willem?"  
  
His breath rasped heavily. He kept pointing. I walked to the edge of the balcony and looked down.  
  
We were above the lake, and the moon was _below_ us. I checked the sky, just to be sure, and saw the full moon hanging low in the sky as it always did, here. But it was not above us, it was too far to the horizon to produce such a reflection. I looked down at the lake, and then to Master Willem. He must have known I was watching, because he lifted his hand again and pointed. A leap of faith, then. I nodded, gripped my saw more tightly, and stepped off the edge.  
  
I woke in the Hunter's Dream, disoriented, and with a sharp ache over my ribs as thought I'd been stabbed. I prayed at one of the graves to return to the college for another try, but it happened again.  
  
And again.  
  
And again.  
  
Each time, I woke, with my flesh remembering the lake but not my mind. It was like the Tombs down below, the dream was too deep for me yet. It was frustrating to no end. So much so, that I left the Dream entirely, deciding to return to the Bay and see if I was still in time to go to school. I woke, my mind and body sluggish, and rolled over on my bed.  
  
"Oh holy SHIT!"  
  
There were _people in my room_.  
  
"Backup, call for backup!"  
  
"Get out of here, RUN!"  
  
Five or six men, their forms obscured by wide helmets and baggy clothes... I squinted. They looked like they were wearing HAZMAT gear. I could barely make out the logo of the PRT, emblazoned on their chests as they stumbled over each other to flee. I sat up as they thundered down the stairs. My closet door was open, my desk had been half cleared off--  
  
My heart gave a painful thud. _The PRT was in my house_.  
  
I scrambled off of my bed, kept one hand on my saw and the other on the wall to guide me downstairs. "Dad?" I called out. "Dad!"  
  
There was no answer. I stumbled through the living room, then to the kitchen. There was a stir-fry on the stove, long cold and congealed and ringed by police tape.  
  
"Dad! DAD!" He was gone. He had been taken. A black fury coiled in my gut.  
  
I kicked open my own front door, splintering the wood and knocking it off its hinges. One bound took me off the broken porch. I could hear sirens, but that was a distant concern. It was night in Brockton, I thought, and rain pattered gently on my hat. The full moon had come and gone, and taken much of my sight with it, as it always did. The yard and street around me were blurry, their colors pale and washed-out as the Hunter's Dream. I could barely see ten, maybe fifteen feet, anything beyond it was fog. I cast my gaze about anyway, hissed breath between my teeth, until finally a light bloomed a few feet away from me. A couple of the Little Ones poked their heads out of the sidewalk, their features crisp and clear as the Yharnam moon, and they made curious moans at me.  
  
"They took my dad!" I yelled at them. "They took him! Help me! Find him for me!"  
  
They moaned, and sank into the ground again, but another one rose up some distance away, illuminating a small patch of the blind fog. Another rose up beyond that, just barely in sight, as the Little Ones traced out a path of moonlight for me. I grinned behind my cowl (at least, I think it was a grin), then tore the cloth away from my face, the motion violent enough to dislodge my hat as well. The rain was soaking it, making it harder to breathe through, and what did a mask matter anymore? I snapped my saw out to its full length, and ran after the Little Ones.  
  
I heard a few people, just shadows at the edge of my sight, scream and run from me. The sirens got closer, until finally a PRT cruiser swung to a stop right in front of me, nearly hitting me, but I darted to the side at the last moment. There were shouts, people yelling orders. Meaningless animal noises.  
  
"Get out of my WAY!" I slammed my saw down on the car's taillight, producing a hellish shriek and a spray of broken pieces, then I vaulted up onto the trunk and back onto the street. I heard shots fired; inconsequential. I ran.  
  
They pursued me, but what were they compared to Gascoigne? They tried to box me in with their cars, until one man left his vehicle too close to me, and I spun on my heel to add momentum. My saw passed through his flimsy vest and buried itself in the cruiser nearly a foot behind his spine. No one got within reach of my saw and lived. I followed the trail of the Little Ones until I reached a wide open space, the painted lines of a crosswalk barely visible under my feet, before I had to slow for my breath. I must have been somewhere downtown. How long were the police and the PRT going to throw their bodies at me?  
  
I heard the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter close in, somewhere above me, and a sharp crack of a heavy switch. I felt light on my skin, a searchlight, but it didn't illuminate for me. I only saw by moonlight. I looked up anyway, my hair around my face in scraggly dripping lengths, my jaw frozen in a grimace. A loudspeaker crackled to life up above me.  
  
**"Bloodmoon! This is the PRT! We have you surrounded! Drop your weapon and surrender!"**  
  
Bloodmoon? Was that what they called me?  
  
I fired a shot from my pistol at the voice. It seemed answer enough. I turned to follow the Little Ones again, but the helicopter's blades didn't quite drown out the very rapid footsteps behind me, sending up twin waves of rainwater. I spun around with my saw braced in front of me. Velocity skidded, slowing down with a yelp before he could split himself in two; that was a mistake. I sprang forward, my open hand closing over Velocity's mask. "You don't get me twice, you don't!"  
  
I brought up my saw, slicing through his belt of foam grenades and felt my weapon's teeth scrape lightly against his ribs. He cried out-- I shoved him away from me, tucked the broken belt into my coat's pocket. "You don't get me twice."  
__**  
"BLOODMOON! DROP YOUR WEAPON AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!"** A roar shook me to my bones. It could only be Triumph. _**"THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE!"**_  
  
I bared my teeth and snarled back at him. "You took my FATHER!" People were entering the limit of my hazy vision; I saw Armsmaster, and the glowing lines on Battery's costume, and the less distinctive shapes of Triumph and Assault. _"You took my FATHER!"_  
  
Armsmaster charged forward. I dodged backward, but Battery surged forward with a colorful flare and slammed her fists into my side, staggering me. I swung at her wildly, and she backed off. "What did you do to him! What did you do to my dad?!"  
  
"You mean what did YOU do!" Armsmaster made a sharp jab at my legs, using the haft of his weapon like a quarterstaff. I blocked it, my saw's teeth screaming on the tinkertech metal. "Your father is practically _braindead!_ "  
  
What?  
  
"Your blood twisted him! It's killing him! You're killing him, like you killed Shadow Stalker!"  
  
"I-- no! No, no, I never!" I rolled away, feeling one of Triumph's shockwaves roar over me. A small jar of red flashed in my memory. "I never hurt him! NEVER!"  
  
Battery surged towards me again, but I was already on my feet. She was unarmed, she may as well be made of tissue paper. But...  
  
But she was a hero. The heroes were fighting me. I dodged her charged fists, brought my saw against Armsmaster's halberd again. "Never never never _never_ \--!"  
  
"H-hey! Kiddo! _Taylor!_ "  
  
"No! No no no you're lying! You're _lying_ what did you do to him!" Stop it. Stop it stop fighting me.  
  
"Taylor! Stop this!" I swung at Armsmaster again, my strike just a couple inches too far right.  
  
"NO! NO NO NO no no noooo!" Triumph's yell staggered me back. I held my saw up like a shield.  
  
"Taylor, _please!_ " His voice was right behind me, perhaps three feet, far too close. I brought my saw around in a vicious arc. The teeth stopped a full six inches before they met Assault's flesh.  
  
"...Mr. Ethan?" My voice was raw.  
  
"Oh thank God. Yeah, it's me." I saw him hold up a hand. "C'mon, kiddo. You recognize me, yeah?"  
  
"Mr. Ethan, they're... they're lying, I didn't hurt my dad I swear..." I heard footsteps, circling around me. A tremor shook my hand.  
  
"Taylor, your dad is _very sick_. We're gonna try and help him, but that'd be a lot easier if you'd put down your weapon, and came with us."  
  
Assault put his hand on the back of my saw and pressed down, lowering it away from him. His eyes were wide. "It-- it's okay, Taylor. Just... put down the weapon, okay?"  
  
A tremor shook my whole body. "C'mon, it's easy. Just... put it down. We'll help your dad, and-- and we can go get coffee again. Maybe some muffins. You remember, right?"  
  
I hiccoughed, and my shoulders started to shake. My saw slipped from numb fingers, landing with the splash and a clatter. I heard a gasp. "I... I know you w-wouldn't lie, Mr. Ethan... my dad, is he...?"  
  
Assault looked uncomfortable, but he nodded. "Your pop's in a bad way, Taylor. We're gonna try and help him, I promise."  
  
Mr. Ethan wouldn't like to me, even if he was wearing a mask. I started to cry. What had happened to my dad? Had I, somehow, hurt him without noticing? Everything without the moon was hazy. I didn't know. I didn't know.  
  
"Mr. Ethan?" I whispered, just barely louder than the rain. "I remembered what you said. I-- I tried to get away. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. But I can't get out. I'm trying so hard, Mr. Ethan...!"  
  
My legs gave way beneath me, and I sank to the concrete. I saw Assault crouch down in front of me, keeping a cautious distance from me. I _sobbed_.  
  
"A-and now-- now I can't stop. And I can't get away, and you-- you can't stop either, you can't stop hurting me because-- because _I'm the bad guy,_ Mr. Ethan! But I can't stop, I'm trying but I can't stop!"  
  
"Sure you can-- you didn't hit me, right? You can always stop, Taylor." But I shook my head, my hair flying in a blackened halo.  
  
"You don't understand! You don't _understand_ , I'm _trapped_ and I can't get out! I'll just go back, every time, and _I can't stop it!_ " My voice left me, my throat too clotted with grief. My thoughts were crashing in on themselves, I couldn't think clearly with the moon so far away. And I was so tired.  
  
Footsteps again, and I saw Armsmaster approaching, one hand on his halberd the other holding two loops-- cuffs, of some design. I almost laughed. I couldn't be kept here, I'd vanish as soon as I slept. Sleep... it sounded good. I turned to Assault again, and blinked my eyes clear. I gave him a small, sad smile. He really was a hero.  
  
"You'll... take care of my dad, won't you?"  
  
I still had my gun. Assault saw my hand move and he yelled-- _"No wait don't!"_  
  
"It's okay, Mr. Ethan. I'm only sleeping."  
  
I drew my pistol and swallowed the bullet.  
  
  
* * *  
  
I returned to Byrgenwerth, and climbed the stairs to the Lunarium. Master Willem was there, still rocking. I screamed at him.  
  
"Help me! Help me, I know you can hear me!" I felt his blind gaze on me. Good.  
  
"I can't go back anymore, do you hear me? I have nowhere to go, nowhere to run! _I'm not coming back from this anymore, I know it!_ "  
  
My voice was raw. I flung out my arm and pointed at the moon, the real one in the sky. "You know what this is, this Hunt! I know you do! How do I stop it! How do I stop _everything?! TELL ME!_ "  
  
His withered face twitched, then creased in a smile. I leaned in closer, and heard him speak.  
  
"Thirds," he rasped. " **Three thirds**."


	30. Chapter 30

**PRT (7)**  
May 25  
  
  
  
Transcript of interrogation of Hebert, Daniel. May 25, 2011, 09:00.  
Interviewer: Armsmaster (ENE Protectorate)  
Witnesses: Dragon (Guild)  
M/S Protocols: Due to possibility of parahuman-related contagion and/or influence via unknown vectors, interviewee has been isolated with a minimum 25-foot radius, and has been confined to a containment cell with all interactions done via remote operation. Both interviewer and witnesses are using remote teleconference equipment, with (Armsmaster) and without (Dragon) visual input of the containment cell. Interviewee has not been supplied with a viewing monitor.  
  
_Begin recording._  
  
A: Armsmaster, East-Northeast Protectorate. May 25th, 2011, 09:00 hours. Beginning interview with Daniel Herbert.  
  
DH: It's Hebert, actually.  
  
A: Hebert, my apologies. Mr. Hebert, would you please state your name and occupation?  
  
DH: Of course. I'm Danny Hebert, I'm the head of the Dockworker's Union.  
  
A: And Mr. Hebert, do you have any family?  
  
DH: Only my daughter, for immediate family. My wife Annette passed a couple years ago.  
  
A: Could you tell me about your daughter?  
  
DH: Taylor. Her name is Taylor. She's 15, soon to be 16. Time really flies, doesn't it? But you want more than that, don't you. I'm afraid I don't really know my daughter very well anymore, sir. We grew apart after my wife passed.  
  
A: Have you noticed any changes in her behavior recently?  
  
DH: She used to be a very bright and happy girl. She became withdrawn after she started attending Winslow.  
  
A: Do you know why?  
  
DH: I suspected she was having troubles, but I never asked. I didn't want to know. She stopped visiting her friends. Stopped smiling. Someone was hurting her, but I never asked. I didn't want to know.  
  
A: Mr. Hebert, could you tell me the names of--  
  
DH: She looks like Annette. It hurt to look at her, so I didn't see anything. I see that now. It hurts to look at her. That's okay. I didn't ask, so now I have to know.  
  
A: What do you mean by that?  
  
DH: It hurts to look at her. I feel it crawling around inside.  
  
A: Could you explain--  
  
DH: I hear it sometimes. I look at me and see what I've done, what I've refused to do. The Mayor is never going to repair the Ferry, you know. And you're going to break your pencil if you keep gripping it like that.  
  
A: Excuse me?  
  
DH: It's in your hand. Most people use the mechanical ones, these days. I didn't think a Tinker would be old-fashioned.  
  
A: Mr. Hebert, can you see me?  
  
DH: Yes.  
  
A: You are aware you are in a sealed room with no means of visualizing me. Mr. Hebert, are you a parahuman?  
  
DH: I don't think so. I hope not.  
  
A: Then how do you believe you are able to see me?  
  
DH: I think it's in my lung.  
  
A: What is?  
  
DH: (No response)  
  
A: Mr. Hebert?  
  
DH: You wanted to ask me about Taylor. Is she in trouble?  
  
A: Yes, Mr. Hebert. She is.  
  
DH: I'm afraid I don't really know my daughter very well anymore, sir. We grew apart after my wife passed.  
  
A: Mr. Hebert... are you aware that your daughter is a parahuman?  
  
DH: No.  
  
A: Have you noticed her sneaking out at night, or--  
  
DH: I don't think my daughter is a cape. I think she's running from something, but I don't know what. I didn't ask.  
  
A: Why do you think she's running from something?  
  
DH: I never asked, ever, so now I have to know. I have to know. I have to know.  
  
A: Mr. Hebert, what do you have to know? What is your daughter doing?  
  
DH: My poor baby girl. She brought it with her. I feel it crawling around inside. I should never have looked away.  
  
A: ...end recording.  
  
_May 25, 09:23. Transcript ends._


	31. Chapter 31

PRT (8)  
June 1  
  
  
  
It was just past 2 o'clock in the morning, and Colin was still at his desk in his lab. His head was lying on the cool surface of his workbench, helmet set aside, and his arms were hanging limp at his sides. He'd moved the whiteboard of Bloodmoon's analysis from his office to his lab, and propped it on a stool a few feet away so he could continue to stare at it from his slump of embittered defeat. There were several new entries on it, with sticky-notes and crumpled sticky notes littering the area around it, and some overturned crates serving as short tables for different related artifacts. A small empty bottle with a warning in charcoal smudged on the side was there, next to a stack of photocopies of a handwritten binder full of dates and events, pulled from the Hebert girl's closet. There was a collection of photographs of her room, and of the bits of equipment she'd left behind. There were copies of Danny Hebert's interview, and the results of his medical examinations.  
  
Colin's eyes traced over each of them, back and forth, and nothing new popped out at him. It all remained as silent and obscure as it ever was. It all remained as damning as it ever was, each piece forming a bouquet of blame and guilt. _( She'd had an Alexandria figurine, the joints well-worn from childhood adoration. She'd had a poster of Armsmaster taped to the side of her bookshelf.)_  
  
His door buzzer sounded once, twice. At the third he pawed for the unlock button set into the side of his workbench, and the door opened. He didn't bother to look. That would require getting up, a feat that just seemed too distant right now to matter.   
  
"Sir? What are you still doing u-- holy shit man. Are you okay?" Dauntless. Of course it would be him. It's not like Colin had much pride left to care about, anyway. Not right now. Footsteps circled behind him until Dauntless came into view, wearing the basic armored bodysuit he always wore under his costume, with some mismatched casual clothes thrown over the top of it. Sandy brown hair, blue eyes, and a guileless smile-- Dauntless was both depressingly normal and irritatingly photogenic. Colin already regretted opening his door.  
  
"I'm fine. What are you doing up, _Eric_?"   
  
"I, uh..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I got up to take a piss and couldn't get back to sleep. So I took a walk around the building, an' I saw your door light was on, so..." Strange. Colin was sure he'd deactivated his door's external light so that nobody would think he was still working. And he'd been here the whole time, the only other person who knew he was up was... Colin couldn't suppress the sigh. Damn it, Dragon. She'd warned him to get some sleep when she finally disconnected her virtual presence several hours ago, but he hadn't thought her the type for such passive-aggressive mothering tactics. Learn something new every day, he supposed.  
  
"You, uh, look kinda worn down, sir. How... long have you been awake, exactly?"  
  
Ugh. This time Colin couldn't avoid moving, and he used one arm to prop himself back up until he was slumped in his chair rather than over his desk. He looked at the shelves overlooking his workbench, where a small clock radio he'd built out of a wristwatch still hung by its band. His helmet's internal clock was synced to satellite and far more accurate, but no Tinker ever really lets go of their first piece of tech. "Eighty-six hours and seventeen minutes, give or take. I took a nap on Saturday."  
  
"That doesn't sound too healthy, sir."  
  
"I didn't ask for your opinion."  
  
Eric mumbled a 'no, sir', then fell silent, looking at the arrangement of evidence set up nearby. After a while he asked, quietly, 'Find any answers?"  
  
"Found more questions."  
  
"S'kinda zen."  
  
"It's kinda bullshit, is what it is." Colin dragged a hand over his face. "I thought I had it. There's always patterns but they always start twisting around as soon as they make sense. I had a means and a motive, for Shadow Stalker; campaign of bullying, girl triggers and goes after her tormentor." Eric's expression flashed through shock, then settled into the more placid sorrow of someone removed from the source of grief. "But if she gave Stalker the blood I found as revenge, then why was she so surprised? Video and audio analysis suggests she believed what she said, about not trying to hurt anyone."  
  
"I thought she-- y'know... her dad."  
  
"She did. Except she _didn't_. I ran the tests six times. There's not a drop of Bloodmoon's blood inside of Daniel Hebert. So why is he falling apart? Why would she kill eighteen PRT and police officers, but kill herself rather than harm Assault?" Colin pinched the bridge of his nose. He thought he knew why she hadn't killed Assault-- he'd interviewed Ethan and Samantha already. What was more curious was that she hadn't killed Velocity. She'd clearly recognized him from their previous, disastrous encounter, and she bore a grudge if her reprimand was any indication. Her weapon could part reinforced Kevlar like it was cotton, but she'd held back and 'only' grazed him.   
  
"What's this on Mr. Hebert's MRI? Or-- wait, are they CT scans? I can never remember the difference."  
  
"Which one?" Eric turned back around, holding up two sets of scans. Colin grunted.  
  
"First one is the brain scan. See the part circled in red? Corona Pollentia."  
  
"Mr. Hebert's a parahuman?" Eric was giving the image a doubtful look. The Corona Gemma, instead of flaring out into the frontal and temporal lobes, had stretched downwards in Daniel Hebert's brain, reaching dozens of thin tendrils through the grey and white matter, the thin growths twisting down to the brain stem. The image almost resembled a spider more than a human's brain.  
  
"I think he's supposed to be." Eric slowly put down the first scan, as though suddenly afraid of disturbing it. "All the others are from the full-body scans. Over four dozen dermoid cysts, scattered all over his body and organs."  
  
"Erm..."  
  
Colin sighed. "Non-cancerous tumors. Fairly common, but all of these are filled with bits of hair, teeth, and ocular tissues."   
  
Eric dropped the bundle like it had burned him, scattering papers and photos all across the floor. He shot a guilty look at Colin before stooping to pick them all up. "Pardon my French, sir, but that's fucked up."  
  
"For once, I agree with you. It _is_ fucked up. It's _all_ fucked up, and I don't understand _how_." This time he ran both hands down his face, a frustrated sound escaping his throat. "There should be a link, but there isn't. I keep reordering things, looking at everything, and it's not working. Something is _missing_ , and I have to find it."  
  
"Sir, I--" Eric started, stopped, then frowned. "Sir, I think you should get some sleep. I know this is important, but you don't have to try so hard to fix it."  
  
Colin removed his hands from his face and stared. Of course _Dauntless_ would say that. He wasn't the one handling the responsibility, _he_ wasn't the one desperately trying to seal the cracks before they spread. He wasn't the one who had to scrape for every inch, who had to constantly balance time and effort against need. He wasn't the one who stood in Mrs. Hess's kitchen as she sobbed into her daughter's spare cape. _( He wasn't the one to grip her hands and say, 'I promise I will fix this.')_  
Dauntless only had to do his job, wait for his powers to make him unbeatable. Dauntless could afford to keep a day job, spending a whole day at a time stationed with a branch of the local fire department. Dauntless could go home at the end of his shift. Dauntless could look himself in the mirror every morning. _( Dauntless could shave with a razor, instead of needing an electric just in case. Dauntless hadn't killed a fifteen-year-old girl.)_ How dare he say he didn't need to try. _How fucking dare he._  
  
Eric took a startled step back, eyes wide. He'd said the last part out loud, and Colin grimaced. Words couldn't be taken back... so, may as well say them again.  
  
"How fucking dare you, Eric. Do you have any goddamned idea what I'm even doing?"  
  
"I didn't mean--"  
  
"No, you don't. I'm spending every waking moment trying. I'm trying to run this branch of the Protectorate, I'm trying to keep the Wards from suffering more casualties, I'm trying to keep this city from falling apart, I'm trying to stop a maniac vigilante who killed Shadow Stalker with some sort of _contagious bio weapon_. I'm trying, constantly, to be an effective hero. And you know what? It's worthless."  
  
"Sir, I--"  
  
"Because anything I accomplish today will not be good enough tomorrow. It never is. It's _never_ enough. So I try, and try, and never achieve perfection, and pray that what I have is good enough for the moment I need it, because if it isn't? Lung burns down five city blocks. Or the E88 runs non-white business owners out of their homes. Or Aegis spends two months in a hospital. Or Assault has a nervous breakdown, after a teenager blows her goddamn brains out in his face!" Colin slammed one hand down on his desk, the sound like a gunshot. Eric jumped at it. "So _fuck you_ for telling me not to 'try so hard', Dauntless! Get out!"  
  
"I meant you can ask for help, not do this al--"  
  
"GET THE HELL OUT!"  
  
Eric ducked out of the lab, just before Armsmaster's helmet crashed into the door frame. Colin heard the small beep of the impact warning sensors inside it. He buried his face into his hands. Everything around him was falling out of place, it felt like. Everything around the Bloodmoon cape was falling out of place.  
  
. . .  
  
Everything _around_ her. Colin looked up, back at the whiteboard. Shadow Stalker had grown erratic after direct contact with Bloodmoon's blood, but Daniel Hebert had grown erratic without it. He'd only been exposed to her presence, and he'd gone straight to hell. Shadow Stalker had been exposed to Bloodmoon's civilian identity, but... Colin frowned, then stood and approached the whiteboard. Had her behavior grown erratic _before_ she'd ingested the first small sample? What would that imply?  
  
"My poor baby girl," he murmured. "She brought it with her." She'd brought it with her. Everything around her was falling apart. Colin picked up a marker, his fingers numb, and carefully printed a single word on an open space of the board:  
  
L A B Y R I N T H


	32. Chapter 32

**Taylor (15)**  
May 25 - June 1  
  
  
Heartbreak.  
  
I'd never recognized what that word meant before. It means loss, a loss so profound and unknowable that there are no words to describe it. It means a hurt so deep that you feel it physically, a rending sensation in the throat and chest, only without the cold embrace of blood loss to calm it. It means sitting in a tight ball behind the far side of your bed, listening to your parents raise their voices for the first time in memory. It means overhearing a phone call at 2 AM, with a faceless voice on the other side saying 'Mr. Hebert, there's been an accident.'  
  
It means a bottomless sea of despair when you realize what you've done.  
  
What had I done?  
  
I wandered the streets of Yharnam, absently trailing my fingers along the abandoned carriages, the stacks of coffins, the half-melted statues of famished women. My thoughts were as clear as my vision, crisp and beautiful in the silver moonlight. The memory of Mr. Ethan's face, with my saw only a few bare inches from cutting him down like a dog, had begun to ripple and blur. Once again, the Bay was mere watercolors, already starting to run. It was like trying to hold onto a dream. Waking to the stench of blood and beasts only made it even more ethereal.   
  
I hated Yharnam. I hated that this was where I was awake, that this was what I had to look forward to when I drifted through my life in Brockton. I hated how beautiful the moon was, hated how it had usurped the sun.  
  
I hated the mark of  <Impurity> glimmering on my wrist. I hated how killing was the only thing that made sense anymore.  
  
I made my way back to the Cathedral Ward, needing some sort of human contact, needing to see the one thing I'd done right in this damned Hunt. I'd found a great many occupied houses, earlier in the night, but most had turned me away. The rest, less than a dozen all totaled, agreed to seek shelter. Only a few came to the Cathedral Ward, and they cast suspicious eyes upon me whenever I visited, but it was something. It was a few lives I'd helped to save rather than ruin. I desperately wanted that to mean something.  
  
This time, I found the blind beggar engaged in a lively conversation with one of the refugees: Arianna, a lovely woman in a red dress. She was likely the most soft-spoken person I'd met in this city, and certainly the most well put-together, if her formalwear and scavenged chair were any indication. I suppose that made sense, given her occupation. She'd had a good laugh at my expense, when I first came across her lit window, as I'd completely failed to understand the hints and flirtations she'd dispensed. I'd barely been able to look her in the eye, when she finally told me flat-out. Now, though, my teenage awkwardness and insecurities were so far removed from my priorities I scarcely remembered them.  
  
The pair looked up at my approach, and the blind beggar stammered a greeting. Arianna gave me a visible once-over and said, "You're looking a bit tense, Hunter. Something I can do for you?"  
  
"Not interested."  
  
"Hmhmhm, not what I meant. Come here, darling. You'll do yourself no favors if you're worn down to nothing." She walked back to her plush chair--I still had no idea where she'd gotten it--and sat down, beckoning to me with one hand. With her other, she opened her purse, and withdrew something I was very familiar with. The one in the Workshop was older and clearly intended for function over form, but a bloodletting tool is always unmistakable. She tied a ribbon around her arm, saying, "Here, hold the vial for me, would you?"  
  
I did, and once I had it flush to her wrist she took the steel lancet and opened a vein. Her blood was a bright and lively color of red, and when she'd filled two vials with her life she untied the ribbon and re-purposed it as a bandage.  
  
"There you are, darling. Even a whore's blood can possess vintage and bouquet." I put one vial away, and uncorked the other, sipping at it. Iron and amaranth. The drops were a warm touch to my frayed nerves. "You picked a bad night to come to Yharnam, I'm afraid... it's not all bad here, Hunter. It's not all beasts and madmen all the time. You'll see, come morning."  
  
"You'll forgive me if I don't believe that. But... thanks, Arianna. I feel a little better."  
  
"Hm. I won't ask what put such a look on your face, Hunter. I'll be here to listen, if you want it."  
  
"...thank you." It was a generous offer--friendly shoulders are rare enough without the Hunt--but I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't think I would ever want to. I turned and left the chapel, so I wouldn't have to see Arianna's sympathetic eyes, or the blind beggar's hopeful, toothless smile. I couldn't be trusted with either of them. I headed deeper into the Cathedral Ward, out of sight, but I wasn't the only one with that idea, it seemed. A voice hailed me from a shadowed crook.   
  
"Still alive, I see."  
  
"Not for lack of trying, I guess. Hello, Eileen."  
  
"Somethin' wrong?" She asked, as I approached.  
  
"Everything."  
  
"Typical Yharnam, then."  
  
"I thought as much." Eileen was leaning comfortably against the wall of the chapel, looking out over a short balcony that loomed over the sprawl of Yharnam, down below. I sat down with my back to the fence, and set my weapons aside. Elieen made an approving noise as she looked at them.   
  
"You've shaped up quickly, as a Hunter. What's the hammer?"  
  
"Djura made it for me. Well, repaired it."  
  
"Djura? That old goat's still kicking? Ha, how under the sky did you manage to get him to talk to you?"  
  
We spent a while in conversation, Eileen asking me about my Hunt, and giving a few anecdotes about the places I'd visited. I didn't mention Brockton, and I kept my branded wrist within the sleeve of my coat. I didn't know if she could sense <Impurity>, but even if the mark was invisible to her, it wasn't to me. And if it was visible, she was good enough not to mention it. I don't know if I could say the same, if I had seen such a mark smouldering in her. Eventually, with the bright circle of the moon still hanging immobile above us, I asked her what she was doing.  
  
"The Hunt makes Hunters mad, my dear. It's my task to put them down, the ones which have succumbed to the thirst for blood, or the lust for battle." She turned towards me, and I couldn't suppress a shiver. I felt her stern gaze through her beaklike mask. "Hunters are far more dangerous than Beasts, when they lose control of themselves. Someone needs to be watchful of that, and that someone is me."  
  
I stayed where I was, and didn't reply. "...now, I'm staking out the Tomb of Oedon. Henryk, an old hunter, has gone mad. He was Gascoigne's partner."  
  
I drew my knees up to my chest.   
  
"Did you kill him, Taylor?" I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Elieen sighed. "He was falling apart. I'm sure it had to be done. I'm sorry. You see what I mean about Hunters losing control, then." I thought again of the image of my saw, holding it just a few inches away from making another terrible mistake. I imagined my skin tearing like paper, with fur spreading over sinew and muscle. The shadow of Gascoigne still followed me, the specter of what he represented. I could not let him catch me. I could not let this Hunt continue until he did.  
  
Elieen continued, still content for the moment to turn a blind eye to my guilt. "Though, if Gascoigne is dead... hm. Stay out of the Tomb, Hunter. Henryk will have to wait a few moments more. I'm going to go check on someone. And, Taylor?" She pushed herself off of the chapel wall, filled with a sudden impatience.   
  
"Try to keep your hands clean." She left, and I saw her feathered cape recede into the shadows. I stood as well, and gathered up my weapons. Elieen was right, had been right from the start. I didn't have time to mope. I couldn't hide and wait for morning. I had to search. I had only the barest idea of what the Three Thirds was, and even that came from the shadows that hid between Master Willem's words, but I'd kept note of places I needed to examine closer, and that seemed as good a place to begin as any. Back to the Cathedral Ward I went, and through the double doors, making my way to the tower with the winding staircase that connected the districts. Reaching the Abandoned Workshop would be difficult without my grappling hook, but I could bear a fall or two if it came to that.  
  
  
  
Even once I got to it, being in the Abandoned Workshop wasn't any easier than it had been, the last time. There was something intangibly sad about it. I didn't wish to linger, but I forced myself to walk the familiar paths, give the hollowed-out stump a friendly pat, and finally enter the Workshop proper. It was still dusty, and its scant books were moldering, and of no help to me. I crossed the creaking floor to the workbench, thinking to give it another look, when I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye that made my heart leap into my throat in surprise.  
  
The Doll was here, sitting in the corner, as though trying to avoid being seen. Except... I took a closer look. This was a doll, a real one, lifeless and immobile. It was exactly the Doll, down to every stitch and seam. I got closer and examined it, enthralled. There were only two differences that I could see, three if you counted the empty gaze. First, pressed into the doll's silver hair was a small comb, which after a moment of hesitation I withdrew. I felt drawn to the bauble, and I wasn't sure why. It was jade, I think, with a delicate carving of flower petals. I tucked it carefully into my coat. It smelled of melancholy.  
  
The second thing was a small jewelry box, cradled in the doll's lap. I touched a fingertip to the delicate clasp, and felt my whole body wracked by a shudder. I recoiled, but...  
  
I touched the clasp again, and carefully undid it, opening the box. Inside was a red velvet cushion, and a small black coil, and a sense of loss so profound and unknowable that I did not have words to describe it. My hand shook as I picked up the small coiled thing that was inside the box. It was perhaps seven inches long, if it had been unraveled, textured with wrinkles and small leathery folds. The cord was lined with small, oil-drop eyes.   
  
I had to grip my wrist to steady my hand. It was dead, I knew it was dead, but that did not diminish the suffocating presence it had. I touched it, and I knew. I knew what it _was_. I knew what I had to do. I had been right: I was not coming back from this. Not anymore.  
  
I screwed my eyes shut, and felt tears track down my cheeks. I felt the small dead eyes blink against my palm.   
  
"Oh, God."  
  
I slipped the Cord into my mouth, and chewed.  
  
I opened my eyes.  
  
I opened my eyes.  
  
_( I OPENED MY EYES)_


	33. Chapter 33

**PRT (9)**  
June 2  
  
  
At 5:00 AM, on the dot, Armsmaster strolled into the Rig's cafeteria. He proceeded to commandeer a large cart from the kitchen, load it up with stolen coffee makers and a seized tray of donuts, and then take the cart and walk back out again without a word, leaving the kitchen staff to scratch their heads and file yet another complaint to Director Piggot.  
  
At 5:15 AM, a mass text was sent out to the local Protectorate heroes on duty, requesting their presence in the West Hall briefing room.  
  
At 5:17 AM, a second text was sent out, reminding them of the former text, and offering a modest bribe for their cooperation.  
  
At 5:34 AM, Velocity and Dauntless arrived at the West Hall briefing room. Miss Militia followed next, then Battery, and finally Triumph who had just come in from a patrol. He undid the catches on his lion helm, raked his fingers through his hair, and glowered.  
  
"You said you'd get coffee and donuts, Armsmaster."  
  
"And they're right there against the wall. Sit down."  
  
"If you're going to 'get' something, it usually means something better than the muddy water coffee we've got here."  
  
"Take it up with your boss. Oh wait, that's me. Now sit down."  
  
Armsmaster waited impatiently for everyone assembled to collect themselves and find seats. He tapped gauntleted fingers on the tabletop, and drew a few concerned looks from his coworkers. Normally someone who took pains to appear immaculate and under control, now he was almost haggard. What little of his face was visible within his helmet was pale and lined from stress, even his beard was beginning to look unkempt. He saw Dauntless eyeing him, but the younger hero ducked his head and refused to meet Armsmaster's gaze when he looked over. Eventually everyone took a seat, an open space left next to Battery out of long habit.  
  
"All settled? Good. I need to make this quick. I think we have a major problem on our hands, and we need to get it under control before it gets worse."  
  
"That's pretty obvious," Triumph responded. "Half the Wards off duty and Assault taking an M/S vacation, all three gangs are starting to push boundaries. Empire's still out for blood after Hookwolf, and the ABB--"  
  
"Not that. I mean Bloodmoon."  
  
There was a slight ripple of unease across the table. Battery gave Armsmaster a hard stare. "She's dead. Very dead. You were even there, Armsmaster."  
  
"Then where's her body, hm? Nowhere. Granted, exploding her head like that seems pretty conclusive, but she's been Nowhere before and I'm not going to relax for at least another full moon. You shouldn't either, if she does come back she might want to have another talk with your husband."  
  
"Wh-- that's not funny, Armsmaster! Jesus, what's wrong with you today?"  
  
"I think there might be a lot wrong with me, Battery. That's why I'm in a hurry. That, and I tweaked my onboard health management systems to override the safety restrictions on my stimulants. I've got about four more hours before I start risking serious damage to my heart and kidneys."  
  
"What the hell, Colin!"  
  
"Moving on," he said, ignoring the outburst and the increasingly concerned expressions. "Over the past few months there's been a lot of debate over Bloodmoon's exact nature and parahuman abilities, particularly with regards to what she did to Shadow Stalker. After examining her father, I believe I've come to the worst possible conclusion."  
  
"Mutagenic bio-Tinker is a pretty fucking bad conclusion, we already know this."  
  
"I don't think she's a Tinker. I don't even think she's working with a Tinker. I think she's a _Shaker_." Silence descended over the gathering. Armsmaster continued speaking. "It's the only option that ties things together. I think her blood is a vector for a Shaker effect. We knew it had anomalous properties but we didn't go far enough with that, we didn't consider what that might mean. Her blood is the bio-Tinker. It starts warping anyone around her over time, causing sleep disturbance, mental instability, and finally, mutation. That's how she's managed increased Brute and Mover abilities over time. That's what made Stalker crazy enough to steal that sample, and when she consumed it, the potency and proximity triggered her transformation. It's what made her father start growing eyes all over his insides."  
  
Dauntless looked sick. So did Velocity and Battery, come to think of it. Miss Militia's expression was mostly hidden by her bandanna, but her hand had tightened on her power's current form of a 9mm pistol. As he watched, it flickered, changing to a configuration a bit more high caliber. "Armsmaster... how long did you have that sample of her blood in your lab?"  
  
Armsmaster smiled, which did nothing to stem the muttered 'oh, shit' from Triumph's end of the table. "Exactly why I'm working on a time limit. In about ninety-two minutes, the Director is going to receive my report, and I will be tossed into Master-Stranger confinement. But I've got a theory on this, and if I'm right, none of us have time to wait on it: I don't think Bloodmoon's blood had to be outside her body to spread its effects. I think her presence alone was enough. So, that said..."  
  
He leaned forward, hands pressed flat to the table hard enough to make it groan. Almost everyone leaned back, reflexively.  
  
"Any volunteers to go with me to Winslow High School?"  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
"We are all going into M/S confinement after this, you realize. Me for obvious reasons, you three for not tackling me to the ground and tazing me."  
  
"You don't have to remind us how big of a clusterfuck this is." Velocity muttered, his hands tight upon the steering wheel of the PRT transport they'd taken. Miss Militia had shotgun, while Battery was next to Armsmaster in the back, the latter doing breathing exercises to maintain her charge. "I'm only here to keep an eye on... I guess all four of us? Fuck."  
  
"If Armsmaster's theory is correct, we're going to need a lot more containment cells. How many students attend Winslow? Close to a thousand, isn't it?"  
  
"Something like that, around 800 I think. It's not the busiest district in the city, but..."  
  
"But, 800 teenagers, and a handful of teachers. Even a suspicion is worth the consequences for disregarding protocols." Miss Militia ran her fingers over her weapon, and it flicked and shifted between types of pistols. "We'll need to do this quick. The school staff doesn't arrive very early ahead of the students. Velocity, Battery, you're on backup. I'll go with Armsmaster to take a quick look inside, so stay on the comms with us. If we find anyone has gone the way of Mr. Hebert, we're getting out and having the whole place quarantined." Her jaw was tight. Battery gave her a solemn look, but nodded.  
  
"Heavy call, there. Okay. What about Bloodmoon's house?"  
  
"I sent a message to Dragon already, asking her to use remote drones to seal off the Hebert household and get a couple cameras inside. Investigators said she just appeared in her bedroom, if she repeats that I want to know about it."  
  
Everyone was quiet for a moment, before Battery quietly asked, "Do you really think she's alive?"  
  
"I don't know. If she is, it wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen in Brockton lately." Armsmaster paused. "I shouldn't have to say this, but... don't tell Ethan. Not until we're sure."  
  
"You're right. You don't have to say it."  
  
"...I'm sorry."  
  
"Yeah," she sighed. "Me too."  
  
"Heads up, people." Velocity said, steering the van into the parking lot of Winslow High. It was already filling with up with secondhand cars belonging to students. A few heads turned as the PRT van came to a stop. "We're here. Good luck, you two. I'll have the radio open."  
  
Miss Militia and Armsmaster got out of the van, then hurried towards the main entrance of the school. Miss Militia's power flickered at her hip, and she shivered, lowering her voice. "This place makes me uneasy. I hope to God you're wrong, Armsmaster."  
  
"So do I. You were here last, any opinion on where we start?"  
  
"Teachers might not be in yet. Let's go see the principal, let her know we're here." The corridors were filling up, students going about their pre-class bustle and chatter. Windows were open in most classrooms, letting in the late spring air for the last few days of class, and sunshine suffused the hallways that Miss Militia led them through. Armsmaster kept close on her heels, and watched the gooseflesh prickle on the back of her neck. Everything was normal, and neither of them could stand it. The air felt like a near solid pressure as they walked.  
  
They set a quick pace and reached the faculty offices in short order. The room was in good order, if as quietly shabby as the rest of the school, but the usual secretary was absent. Miss Militia made a hmm noise in her throat, and kept her voice low.  
  
"There's a light on in the Principal's office, but there's supposed to be someone out here. I'd figured the teachers might be slow, but the clerical staff? They're always overworked in a place like this."  
  
"Doesn't look out of order, though, and I smell coffee. Could just be late getting settled." Armsmaster replied. "...it's quiet out there. I didn't hear a bell, did you?"  
  
Miss Militia shook her head, then grabbed Armsmaster by the shoulder when he turned to leave. "Oh no, we are _not_ splitting up. Not here. Let's just go in." She kept hold of him, then knocked on the frosted pane of the Principal's door. A crisp voice from within answered, saying, 'Come in.'  
  
Principal Blackwell was at her desk, dressed smartly in her three-piece suit and with her ever-present scowl, just as Miss Militia remembered her. She quirked a brow when the heroes entered her office. "I wasn't aware the PRT was coming by today. Do you have an appointment?"  
  
"No ma'am," Armsmaster said. "I'm afraid this is somewhat of an unscheduled matter. We'd like to ask you a few questions abo--"  
  
"You'll need an appointment."  
  
Armsmaster paused. "That's not really an option, Principal Blackwell. We're here on Protectorate business."  
  
"You can't be here without an appointment, I don't care who you are." Blackwell ground out between her teeth. Miss Militia sent Armsmaster a look, then carefully backed a few paces away, putting a bit of space between herself and the Tinker. Armsmaster's halberd took up a lot of room, if it needed to be swung.   
  
"Principal Blackwell, we may need you to come with us, after we ask you a few questions."  
  
"This is my office, my school, I'm not going anywhere." She seethed, her face contorting into a frown too large for her face. "I'm not going anywhere!"  
  
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to place you under Master-Stranger arrest if you--" Blackwell flung her arm out in anger, the limb stretching and smacking Armsmaster across the chest from three feet away. A flesh-colored puddle seeped out from under the desk, burbling and reaching tendrils towards the pair of heroes. A handful of toothless mouths opened along their lengths as Blackwell shrieked, " _I'm not going anywhere!_ "  
  
"Backup! Velocity, we need backup-- Velocity? Velocity!" Armsmaster and Miss Militia retreated from the office, slamming the door closed behind them. "Signal's cut, that shouldn't be possible."  
  
"You think _any_ of this is possible? We need to leave, now!" Miss Militia grabbed a chair and shoved it against the door's latch. The frosted glass shuddered as Blackwell's limbs slapped against it, howling in unison. "That's not gonna hold. Go!"  
  
They left the faculty office, stepping quickly into the empty hallways and abandoned classrooms. All the windows were nailed shut, with dust-colored sunlight suffusing the air and making every breath taste stale. The walls were covered in spiderwebs of cracks, with petrified orbs peering out from the larger gaps. Armsmaster passed too close to a row of lockers, which snapped their jaws at him until he moved back towards the center of the corridor. He wiped rust-colored spittle off his arm with a shaking hand.   
  
"Oh God. Tell me you're seeing this too, Militia. ...Militia?"  
  
Miss Militia was staring out one of the windows set into the hallway. Outside the school, the parking lot was gone, as were all the cars, and everything beyond them. Instead, Winslow was sitting in some sort of badlands, the ground dry and cracked, and littered with tombstones that oozed a red substance. A few silver-colored creatures prowled in the distance. Armsmaster walked to the window, and peered out in silence at the dead land under the cancerous sun. After a few moments, Miss Militia offered him her hand. He took it.  
  
They both held tight.


	34. Chapter 34

**Taylor (16)**  
...?  
  
  
I was dreaming.  (I was waking up.)  
  
It hurt. Oh God, it hurt. My head, my body. There were fingers twining around the valves of my heart. I felt the stuttering beat in my chest, my cage. The bird inside was flapping its wings and trying so hard to escape. It beat against my ribs, battered its wings against the bars and when I would not give, it bashed the whole of its frail body against the lock until it battered itself to pieces, until my heart lie dead in my hands with my fingers curled into all the valves and chambers.  
  
I was killing myself and I couldn't stop. I didn't think it would hurt this much.  
(Anything coming back to life has to ache.)  
  
I was lying on the floor of the Abandoned Workshop, my head pillowed in the Doll's lap, her porcelain hand combing gently through my hair. I smelled heather and moonlight. I got one arm under me to obey, and pushed myself up. The broken doll shifted slightly with my movements, long years of dust falling from her faded dress. Her hands were still clasped lightly in her lap, where they had always been. I stared. I felt myself start to shake my head, repeating _'no, no'_ and not knowing what I was rejecting.  
  
I couldn't stand. I pushed myself away, scrabbled across the floor. Where was I even going? Away. Anywhere that was away from here.  I can't escape me.  
  
My stomach turned, flooded my mouth with saliva in warning. I retched, but there was nothing I could expel. The pain was getting worse, coming in waves that crashed along every nerve. I needed help. I needed a doctor, I needed--  
  
_Iosefka's hand reached through the hole in the broken pane of frosted glass, holding out a few thin capsules of a blue liquid. She had lovely fingers, long and poised. A surgeon's hand._  
  
_"I've recieved another patient. Here, take these as my thanks." I took the vials from her, not brushing my gloved hands against hers. "Cheers. To the discovery of (kinship)... ahh." Her voice turned nearly breathless. I could hear her ecstasy when she giggled. _  
  
_"Doesn't it make you feel warm inside?"_  
  
I stumbled. I'd gotten to my feet, even moved down the path. I don't remember getting up. I don't remember Iosefka's high thin laughter, but there was a lead weight in my belly all the same. I was not there. I was barely even here. I could see the sloping path down to the exit, back into the high tower, but when I tried to take another step I faltered. Another-- I couldn't. My feet shuffled on the broken stones, and I turned back towards the Abandoned Workshop.  
  
"No, no." I took a step, and this was much easier. I blinked away tears and couldn't remember when I'd started--or stopped--crying. I didn't want to go back in there. It was full of dust, and melancholy, and I had done something terrible in there I _knew_ it, and as soon as I stopped dying I'd remember what it was. I took another step. I just wanted to get away, but there was no one to pray to.  
  
"No... no, no. Noooo..."  
  
_"No wait don't!"_  
  
_I took another step, and water sloshed over my boots. Flashing red and blue lights strobed over the pavement all around. Faceless men were everywhere, putting up barriers and stringing yellow tape between them. A tall man in blue armor had a radio close to his face, and I saw his lips moving as he spoke to it, but I couldn't hear what he said. I couldn't hear anything; even the rain was silent. I watched him gesture at the pavement nearby, inside a ring of yellow tape, where a darker shadow in the water rippled under the puddles of rain._  
  
I knew what it was. I knew this. But I hadn't been here. I pressed a hand to my head and dug my thumb into my temple, a small sound escaping me. A small sound answered. Then another, growing louder. I followed it, gliding soundlessly through the circling emergency lights, and into the open doors of a PRT van.  
  
Mr. Ethan was sitting on a bench inside, against the wall, with his elbows on his knees and his head clutched tight in his hands. Stained water was still dripping off his costume, adding to a fouled puddle between his feet where his mask lay empty and stared up at him in accusation. I crept closer, and saw a small bit of something grey stuck in his hair. There were a few more streaks of it on his chest and neck and arm, like ash had gotten mixed with the rain. A small sound escaped him, but nothing answered. It wasn't a sound that could be answered in words, anyway. It was a tiny, helpless animal sound. The sound of something caught in a trap, long after it has stopped hoping for escape.  
  
A small sound escaped him. I put a hand over my mouth.  
  
Battery sat beside him, one hand combing through his hair and the other gripped tight around his shoulders. Her lips moved in a silent litany of soothing sounds, trying to ease the pain the only way she could. It was not enough. It might not ever be enough.  
  
I reached out a hand to touch Mr. Ethan's shoulder, and my fingers wrapped over rough stone. I dropped to one knee, swayed, caught myself. There was only one grave here, and it was unmarked, or perhaps it was so old the writing had long worn away. I swayed again, then grunted and gave up the fight against vertigo and sat back against the headstone. The pain was fading, but it still lapped against me, and my chest was so tight. I felt like I was drowning. I needed to focus, needed to stay _here_ , but it was so hard to breathe. I closed my eyes, concentrated on just filling my lungs. I slumped on the grave, my head lolled back on my neck. Someone _sat down in the desk beside me. I inhaled: the scents of frustration and gnawing anger greeted me. I almost laughed._  
  
"Did you get bored of me, Sophia?" I asked. How long had it been since I'd seen her, even thought about her? "I don't think you've shoved me, even once, in a month." She denied it-- what, I'm not sure. I huffed, still trying to breathe, and let my eyes _roll back, then front, then to the side, fixing on her. Sophia had the strangest look on her face. I stared, trying to decode it._  
  
_"You're going out again, aren't you? Soon. Tonight, maybe. Or tomorrow." I watched the play of tension around her eyes, her mouth. I'd never seen her without her sneers, her smirks. Whose face was this? She looked so hungry, so desperate for something. "I've watched. Saw you go out. Saw you-- saw you." She said, voice hushed. I felt a tremble in my brain._  
  
_"I didn't tell. What do I care about some dead gangbangers? They had it coming."_  
  
_"They're beasts." I whispered. Why was I even speaking to her? I felt strange. Remote. "Just scratching and biting... clawing at people. You and Emma, biting and clawing. I smell it on you."_  
  
_"I'm not a beast!"_  
  
_"Maybe." I looked around the room. Was this Winslow? I rolled my head back a little, felt the_ worn stone against my skull. I didn't understand.  
  
_"I need to know. I saw you drinking, one night. That stuck with me. I can't-- I can't understand."_  
__  
"Ah..." I smiled. Familiar territory. "Bless us with blood, hm? Their blood is too thin and weak to be much good. Enough for bruises. Enough to take the edge off. You'll be wanting something stronger, I think." I reached into my greatcoat and withdrew a small, labeled glass jar, stoppered with a cork. I held it out on the palm of my hand. Sophia took it.  
  
What was I doing? I withdrew my hand, held to the empty air beside the old grave. Little Ones were clustered around me, around the grave. I drew shaking hands to my face, then through my hair. I'd seen that vial on my palm before. I'd remembered it, just for an instant. I opened my coat, dug through my many pockets. I had to know.  
  
I didn't find any blue capsules. I did find an empty slot for a vial, right where I'd just taken one to give to Sophia, months ago. I couldn't find the empty container anywhere. My breath hitched. My thoughts were getting clearer, but it only made room for panic.  
  
"What is this? What's happening to me?" The Little Ones smiled wider, reached out spindly fingers to pat at my shoulders. A few looked like they were trying to re-dig the grave around me, to churn the soil enough that I'd sink into it. I turned around, gripped the headstone with both hands. I felt bones press against my knees-- I was not staying here a moment longer.  
  
"Please," I looked at the Little Ones. "Please, take me out of here. I have to go. I have to-- I have to." I had to do something. Anything but get lost in myself.  
  
I closed my eyes, and prayed at the Old Hunter's grave.  
  
It was not the Little Ones that answered.


	35. Chapter 35

**Taylor (17)**  
  
  
Dying, dreaming, waking up: they're usually quite fast. I'd close my eyes, and open them again. It had become familiar. But this... this was nothing.  
  
I lingered in that cold emptiness, a space between death and dreams, as I'd never had before. I was bodiless, and my perception of where my limbs must be stretched and distorted as time continued to refuse to pass. Fear creeped in, not the sudden electrifying panic that came from the roars of beasts, but a shivering loneliness that made me feel very small. I was lost in a vast nothing, and I was afraid.  
  
And from that nothing, appearing as if they'd been there all along, I saw lights. Tiny, fleeting things, like motes of dust twinkling in a sunbeam. They were whispering, a susurus hum at the edge of my hearing. I wanted to listen to them--anything was better than this darkness--but they were at once near and very, very far. I spoke, pleading, but there was no sound other than their continued, half-heard song. I reached, and stretched, and _wanted_ , and <Communion> trembled in my brain. I did not get closer, but I felt somehow that the lights were not so far away as I'd thought.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I opened my eyes.  
  
I woke up on the cold stones of what looked like the Cathedral Ward. Looked like, but... wasn't. Gone were the censers, the scattered rugs, and most of the exits. Absent were the refugees, and the Beggar's stubborn optimism, and Arianna's warm presence. The deserted chapel even felt empty in a way that made my skin crawl, and I quickly regained my feet and hurried to the far door. Daylight streamed through it, but the sunlight held no heat or comfort, and as soon as my eyes adjusted to the light I understood why.  
  
I emerged into the sun-drenched plaza. Around me was Yharnam's cathedral district, but... not. Yharnam, for all its faults, was alive; it was a city of living blood, and dying blood, and steeped in all the stench and wear of generations of people. This place I had come to, it held the same general shape as Yharnam, but little else. The ground was uneven, the stones and stairs and buildings marred by the texture of undulating growths. I saw entire hillsides of what was surely not earth, pitted and pocked and swirled like something organic. This was not a city. This was a tumor, and every inch of it was bleached of color, dry and gritty, like bones long exposed to a merciless sun. That sun hung above me, looking far too bloated and soft, with all the edges curled in and decaying under a spreading mold.  
  
I drew an unsteady breath, coughed on the dust, and searched my pockets for my hat and mask. I couldn't find them; I'd have to ask the Little Ones later. For now, there was nothing to do but go forward, deeper into this nightmare. ( _Not 'a', but The._ )  
  
It didn't take me long to find signs of inhabitants. The flayed hounds were easy enough to deal with, their bloodied paws made scrabbling sounds on the calcified paths that I could hear coming from a mile away. The Hunter that followed them down the path, on the other hand? I was unprepared for him, and it cost me. I certainly saw him coming, <Impurity> festered over every inch of him, but a Hunter is no mere beast or maddened peasant. He spotted me, and I swore I could see his eyes even from such a distance-- bloodshot, dark things, the pupils blown to fragmentation. He spotted me, and there was nothing inside him, only a clawing thirst for violence.  
  
"More! MORE BLOOD!" He bayed, and flung himself forward faster than I'd thought possible. I thought he carried a saw, at first, and I darted back out of his reach. He flung his weapon back, then whipped it forward-- and it split, clanking and extending, an actual whip made of thick razors and heavy iron pins. I think Hookwolf would have smiled; the chain split me open across the middle, and I woke again in the deserted chapel. When I saw the Hunter next, I was faster, and leapt to the side. He was made of sturdy stuff, and though I did manage to press my saw into the hollow of his neck and bite deeply, his unholy whip caught at my shoulder and tore until my arm was lost to me. I bled out quickly, and woke, and when I found the next Hunter near a closed gate I bared my teeth and struck first.  
  
I was parched, and my throat burned from dust. <Impurity> burned on my wrist. That Hunter soothed one thing, at least.  
  
I found beastmen, further on, huddled in packs in what crooks and corners the diseased sunlight didn't reach. They looked up at my approach, saw my dripping shirt and hands, and backed away in fear. They covered their misshapen faces with their equally misshapen claws. Their whines attracted the attention of another Hunter, who cried out and cut them down in a frenzy. I opened his ribs and spine before he could do the same to me.  
  
This was the true face of Yharnam, city of blood. I was surrounded by the mad, the dead, and the wretched. And, little by little, I started to feel right at home.  
  
I don't like to consider what might have happened, if I had not pressed forward until I reached the bloody mire.  
  
The cosmos has a strange sense of irony.


	36. Chapter 36

**PRT (10)**  
...?  
  
  
"We need to fortify this position, make a safe zone and wait for extraction. I'll see if I can't get the radio's signal boosted, maybe I can--"  
  
"This isn't the boy scouts, Armsmaster! And we're not lost in the woods, either. We need to leave." Miss Militia hissed over her shoulder, as she worked at the nearest window with a bayonet helpfully supplied by her power. She wasn't having much luck, the windows had seemingly fused into the walls, like glass and nail-studded decorations. She made a frustrated sound, and her power flickered back into a shotgun configuration.  
  
"And if we leave here, and Velocity and Battery come after us?"  
  
"Velocity and Battery know better than to walk in blind to a potentially hostile Master/Stranger/Shaker situation. Which I can no longer say of us, apparently." She walked past Armsmaster and gave the door to the faculty offices a cautious tug, but the door didn't budge. "Great... no going back the way we came, it's looking like."  
  
"That's... a fair assessment." Armsmaster hedged, as he closed up the panel he had open on his right gauntlet. "With the radio cut, they probably won't follow immediately, not without getting some backup. Honestly, I'm rather glad they're not here. This isn't a good place for them."  
  
Miss Militia gave the Tinker an incredulous look over the top of her bandana. "This isn't a good place for anybody, Armsmaster."  
  
"Clearly. Apparently even my worst possible conclusion was not bad enough, because if this is Bloodmoon's Shaker effect than this entire place may as well be radioactive. And as capable as Battery and Velocity are, they're both _fist-fighters_. I'd rather they not get their hands dirty having to punch out Principal Cthulhu."  
  
"Fair enough... alright. Waiting won't help, so let's get the hell out of here. I'll take point, you've got rearguard."  
  
The pair set off, down the stuffy halls, keeping their weapons readied and their path a safe distance from the open maws of the lockers, from the staring eyes in the cracks in the walls, from the open doors leading to abandoned classrooms. Several doors led nowhere, instead, the frames either carved into the wall like decorations as the windows had been, or else opening on bare brick. The occasional staircase led to open drops, or twisted on themselves to form unsettling loops. All throughout the school, pale shadows of students and teachers passed the heroes by, but all attempts to hail or interact with them proved futile.  
  
The abandoned and twisted school sprawled in a way that Winslow never had, and the passage felt longer from tension. Eventually, Miss Militia spotted a landmark, and hurried towards it.  
  
"That-- up there. That's the Nurse's Office. We should be close to the front doors, then. I hope." She passed her shotgun over the nearby halls, just in case, then tried the door. The knob rattled, locked. "Huh. Nothing else has done that. Armsmaster, come see if you can-- GAH!" She recoiled from the door when a shadow--a real shadow, not the pale phantoms of absent students--darkened the frosted glass. There was a man behind the door, and he chuckled.  
  
"Well, well. Look at you, lucky ones! You're nigh-on beasts of the fields, you know? But here you are! Treading a measure with the gods!"  
  
Armsmaster stepped forward, with a brisk, "We're with the Protectorate. Identify yourself." The man behind the door laughed again. Militia and Armsmaster exchanged a quick glance.  
  
"Once in a lifetime opportunity, you have here. Go on, go on, explore a bit! Go see the--" Armsmaster shoved his halberd into the crack of the door, then twisted, splintering apart the lock and knob. The man inside let out a sudden yelp and scrambled back, a clicking noise following him as the door swung open.  
  
The man inside the Nurse's Office was not a man at all. A black spider, its bulbous thorax as wide as Armsmaster's chest, maybe more, was perched on the counter near the sink. Where the spider's eight eyes and jaws should have been was the head of a human male, pale, bald, and slightly pudgy, and at the moment his eyes were wide with alarm. The power-granted laser sight of Miss Militia's pistol painted a bright green dot on the spider's forehead. The creature quickly forced its expression into a smile.  
  
"As I said... we're with the Protectorate. _Identify yourself_."  
  
"Oh, me? Oh, I'm nobody, nobody at all--" Armsmaster lowered the tip of his halberd. "--b-but my friends call me Patches. And we're-- we're all friends here, aren't we? Yes, of course. And your names, my dear compeers?" Patches the spider started to rub his foremost legs together, the motion unsettlingly reminiscent of a man wringing his hands.  
  
"Miss Militia and Armsmaster, Protectorate East-Northeast." Miss Militia volunteered, lowering her guns sights just a tad. "You're a parahuman?"  
  
"Pair of-- there's only one Patches, friend."  
  
"...right. Well then, Patches, do you know the way out of here?"  
  
"Oh? A little lost, are we? Well I'd be happy to help!" The creature's smile widened, and lost some of its tension, but Miss Militia's hands gripped her power's pistol tighter. "Out this door and just yonder lies the front gates to this little corner. But I'm afraid you'll find them locked and barred: some strange thorns grew up around them, creeping through the floor. I'd wager that the flower for those vines is down below us. If you were to use your clever cutters on the roots, I'm sure the thorns would wither."  
  
Miss Militia put a hand on Armsmaster's forearm and gripped, forestalling any interjections before he could make them. "And how would we get down below?"  
  
"Not far from the gates, I spied a set of stairs that stretched downwards. A sign above them said 'Exit.' Terribly rude of it, to mislead travelers so. Wouldn't you agree?"  
  
"Um. Yes. _Thank you but we really must be going_." Miss Militia tugged on Armsmaster's arm until he backed out of the Nurse's Office. Patches lifted a foreleg in a jaunty wave as they left.  
  
"Anytime, my friends! Do be careful, it's quiet on this level but some of the others... I wouldn't drop my guard, if I were you. Farewell, my sweet compeers."  
  
Miss Militia shut the door behind them, as much as it would stay shut, and then all but bodily dragged the Tinker towards the promised exit. Armsmaster lowered his voice and spoke between gritted teeth.  
  
"Militia! What are you doing, we need to find out how a Case 53 wandered in here. He's a valuable source of information."  
  
"A Case 53 that is either insane, or not human at all and just a _fixture_ of this place! And we're on a time limit here, Armsmaster, in case you've forgotten."  
  
"That's-- I know." He said, and after a reluctant pause Armsmaster started walking beside Miss Militia again. "I'm fine. I'll _be_ fine."  
  
The heroes reached the front entrance shortly enough, right where the spider had said it would be. And it was barred, but not by vines, except in the loosest possible sense of the term. Some sort of silvery metal flowed over the cracks and through the locks of the push-bars. Armsmaster's halberd could cut it readily enough, but the liquid just flowed around the blade and sealed up any damage the Tinker managed to cause in the door. With little else in the way of options, the pair retraced their steps to the nearest fire escape, pried open the rusted door, and carefully made their way down the darkened stairs.  
  
"Armsmaster, have you got a light?"  
  
"I'm using it right now. I can't see it either. This place is displaying unfortunate similarities to Grue's Shaker effects."  
  
"I can see the steps and you, it's just like the air is swallowing the light. Wait-- it's getting brighter ahead. Weapons free." Keeping one hand on the wall for guidance and one hand on her power's pistol, Miss Militia pressed forward, until the sounds of their steps on concrete abruptly changed to the rattling taps of walking on metal. The stairwell flared out to either side, opening up and transitioning to a raised walkway pressed against an interior wall. Rusted stairs led further down to the ground level, an open space filled with small twisted spires of rock around a large, circular pit of rust-colored sand. Miss Militia edged forwards, to the railing, and did a quick sweep of the area with her pistol. "Where is this supposed to be?"  
  
"35th and Stanton..." Armsmaster breathed. "I was right. This is-- it's the dog ring. Velocity encountered Bloodmoon here, it's where we got the sample of her blood from. I was right, the school is far more complete and warped because she spent more time there! We can quarantine wherever we know her blood has spilled, and hopefully just passing by a place isn't enough to contaminate it. We've got a chance to control this, before it spreads--"  
  
A black shape rushed forward, coming down from the wall behind the pair. Long legs slammed into Miss Militia's back, flipping her over the railing and sending her tumbling down into the pit with a startled yell. Armsmaster whipped his halberd to the side, bringing the blade down and tearing through the walkway, the sound of rent metal not quite covering Patches' laughter.  
  
"Ah-ha ha! I warned you not to drop your guards!" The spider called out, his pale face already vanishing into the gloom as he skittered up the wall. "Farewell, my _friends_! Ahahahahaha!"  
  
"Dammit-- Militia! Are you okay?"  
  
"A little bruised, but fine..." She trailed off. Armsmaster peered down at her, but the sound reached him before he could call out again. A heady, rasping sound, full of clinks and clicks of moving metal. From the far side of the pit, a shape lumbered into view, and Miss Militia reflexively backed up a few steps.  
  


  
Hookwolf looked much the same as when Armsmaster had last seen the Changer, moving unsteadily on four legs, with one hip flayed open and full of jagged shards of metal. The blackened scoring was still visible on the cage of ribs that dominated the parahuman's midsection, and though he was too far away for details, Armsmaster could see _something_ faintly twitching inside the hollow chest. Bloodmoon's grappling hook was still clasped onto the beast's shoulders, and the rope trailed behind Hookwolf as it moved forward, catching on its long flat-edged tail. Hookwolf kept turning its blackened stump of neck this way and that, as though listening through ears it no longer possessed. A sound like breathing reverberated through the beast's bladed torso, and--  
  
Hookwolf turned its blind body towards where Miss Militia stood, and roared.  
  
Miss Militia shot first.  
  
The high-caliber rifle supplied by her power didn't drown out the headless beast's rage, but it blew a hole through the crumbling neck. Shrapnel sprayed out, but Hookwolf didn't stumble. The beast surged forward, clearing the arena in three great strides, and swiped one huge paw at Miss Militia. The heroine ducked, and the metal talons whistled through the air a scant few inches above her head. Miss Militia took off in a sprint, trying to get enough distance from Hookwolf to start shooting again. Hookwolf's tail curved back, readying for a swing.  
  
Armsmaster chose that moment to disregard the stairs and jump over the railing, and plunged his halberd into Hookwolf's back with the force of all his weight behind it. The metal beast screeched like tearing metal and began to buck, trying to throw Armsmaster off of its back. The blackened shoulder blades scraped against Armsmaster's armor. With a quick twist, Armsmaster freed his weapon from Hookwolf's spine, and the beast promptly threw the Tinker away from it. Armsmaster rolled through the sand, regaining his feet in time to see Hookwolf rear up on its back legs.  
  
Hookwolf's ribcage shuddered, then opened, the curved teeth pulling back like an open maw. Inside the chest cavity hung suspended the body of Brad Meadows, his sides speared through by the hooks and chains he was famous for. A silvery liquid seeped from his eyes and mouth, pooled in the wounds on his sides. A shot rang out from the other side of the arena as Miss Militia took advantage of Hookwolf's distraction, and a gout of silver erupted from Brad Meadow's pallid shoulder. Hookwolf screamed, the neck's inner workings vibrating from anger, and took two large steps towards Armsmaster before pitching forward, back onto four legs. The Tinker scrambled away, and Hookwolf's ribcage snapped shut on sand.  
  
Another shot, then a third, but the bullets ricocheted off of the beast's knife-linked hide. Miss Militia cursed, and yelled, "Switching weapons!"  
  
"Got it!" Armsmaster countered, and he flipped his halberd into a more secure grip with two hands. He stabbed at Hookwolf's chest, seeking to lodge the blade of his weapon into the beast's foreleg joint. Shards snapped off, and then Armsmaster was darting back away from Hookwolf's sweeping talons. The beast's tail rose up, over his shoulders in parody of a scorpion, then it slammed the blade down like a guillotine. Armsmaster moved forward instead, away from the scything tail, and hacked at the severed neck.  
  
Several meters away, Miss Militia was wrestling with her power. The firearm rapidly flickered through forms before it seemed to shudder, and began unfolding itself into something larger. Pain shot through Miss Militia's head, making her gasp, then hiss through her teeth. The gun's muzzle lengthened, then broadened, and pulled Miss Militia's shoulder down from its weight. She cursed, squinted against the unfamiliar headache, then yelled--  
  
_"Fire in the hole!"_  
  
Armsmaster threw himself to the side, just as a bone-rattling BOOM sounded from across the pit. The cannonball slammed into Hookwolf's side with a horrific crunch of steel, and knocked the headless beast off its feet. It rolled, then flailed until the beast's legs were under it again. Talons raked at the sand as Hookwolf flung itself bodily at Miss Militia, and Armsmaster caught sight of the heroine's eyes widening in alarm as she took an uncertain step to the side-- the canon was heavy, too heavy to effectively dodge something as quick as Hookwolf while holding. She raised the muzzle instead, and fired. The heavy shot crushed the front of Hookwolf's chest, and drove the beast back several steps from the sheer impact. Hookwolf's ribs clicked and rattled together, the sound of deep breathing echoing around the razor-lined ribs. The headless beast started forwards again, but this time Armsmaster intercepted, with another powerful stab into the shoulder joint.  
  
"Armsmaster, move, I need a clear shot!"  
  
Armsmaster twisted the halberd, making Hookwolf stumble, then pulled the half back with a quick step away-- only to feel Hookwolf's tail press against his back. The beast's tail curved, pulling Armsmaster towards Hookwolf's body as the metal beast reared up again, ribcage opening. Trapped by the tail, Armsmaster had nowhere to run.  
  
"Colin, _move_!"  
  
Armsmaster gripped the half of his halberd in his right hand, then lunged forward. The blade sank into Brad Meadow's dead chest.  
  
The ribcage snapped shut on Armsmaster's arm, a few inches below the shoulder, with a sickening _crunch_. The ribs opened an inch, then closed again, _chewing_. Armsmaster screamed, then reached over with his left hand and shoved the haft of his halberd to the side. Inside the ribcage, the blade cut, then sawed back as Armsmaster pulled on the weapon again.  
  
"COLIN!"  
  
Hookwolf's body shuddered, its neck making a grinding noise of steel on steel. The ribcage clenched and trembled, silvery liquid spilling out between the ribs, and Hookwolf finally lost its balance. The headless beast collapsed, and fell motionless onto the sand. There was a tearing sound, wet and horrible, as the clenched ribs took Armsmaster's arm with them. The Tinker sank to his knees, remaining hand pressed to the gushing stump, as fresh red joined the rust-colored sand.


	37. Chapter 37

**Sophia (6)**  
...?  
  
  
She was sinking. It was a slow thing, over years instead of minutes, but the red mire crept up over her knees and up her thighs, a slow and inexorable draw downwards into Hell.  
  
She struggled, of course. Struggle wasn't just what Sophia did, it's what she _was_ , a refusal to lay down and accept whatever shit deal the world had for her. She wrestled with her power, but it wouldn't obey her, kept her locked into this here-not-here existence where she was too far gone to grab hold of anything, but not so far gone the mire couldn't grab hold of her. She tried to clutch at the sandbars, the bladed grasses, the nearby moaning corpses, but her fingers found no purchase. She tried to dig her way out, lift her legs away from the sucking depths and scoop the root away from her feet, and _that_ at least didn't refuse to acknowledge her. Blood squelched around her fingers and flowed easily around her legs, and loosed a mocking burble at her curses and anguished pulling.  
  
She was sinking, and she couldn't get free. She couldn't fight, couldn't survive, couldn't even run. This fetid mire, the cancerous sun-- they were impassive. They didn't care about the important questions, about how people answered, and rolled over or fought. Didn't care about losers, or winners. Didn't care about survivors. Hell welcomes everyone with open arms.  
  
She tried to fight it. Didn't that count for anything?  
  
  
  
  
When the blood reached her hips, she heard something. Something that wasn't a low moan, or stifled sob: she heard footsteps. There was someone else here. Sophia twisted as best she could, looking around for the source, until she caught sight of someone walking through the mire-- someone tall, draped in a heavy coat of bloodstained leather. Someone with long, unkempt dark hair, and cracked glasses, and holding an oversized saw with huge, ugly teeth. Sophia's breath caught in her throat, the sight stirring a memory.  
_  
Hell of a bite there, Hebert._  
  
"H-hebert?"   
  
And unbelievably, it was. Taylor Hebert looked up, caught sight of Sophia where she was stranded in the muck. She paused, just slightly, then changed course and walked closer. Her long legs carried her over the bloody stretch quickly, and Sophia noted with bitterness that Hebert's boots only sank an inch or so into the mire, barely enough to slow her down. Hebert stopped on a nearby sandbar, well out of Sophia's reach, and stared down at her, face set in something very like confusion.   
  
There was something about Hebert's face that made expressions hard to read, like they didn't quite fit. Maybe it was her eyes.  
  
"...Sophia Hess? Is that you?" She said, and blinked a few times. Then frowned. "Why are you a ghost?"  
  
"Hebert! Yeah, it's me. My power's not working, give me a hand here."  
  
Hebert didn't move, just cocked her head slightly, studying Sophia. Her eyes flicked over the crossbow held to Sophia's side, and over the half-seen shimmers of her cape and costume. "Power, huh? I guess you're... what, Shadow Stalker?"  
  
"Wh-- yeah, I am. I'm a hero. So, help me out here, Hebert." Sophia stretched out her hand, insistent.   
  
"I guess that'd explain a few things," she said. She still hadn't moved. "But not why you're here... or maybe it does." Hebert's gaze lingered on a spot near Sophia's shoulder. Sophia spared a quick glance, but there was nothing for Hebert to be staring at. She started to struggle.  
  
"Why are you just _standing there_! What are you doing, are you gonna help me or not?"  
  
"I'm seriously considering giving a shit." She was still staring at Sophia's shoulder, her expression growing dark and remote. Her fingers traced along the handle of her saw.  
  
_She wants to kill me_ , Sophia thought, and then immediately retracted. Hebert didn't look like she cared enough to want Sophia's blood on her hands. She didn't look like she cared to save her, either: Hebert was impassive. And that, more than anything, made fear poke spindly legs into Sophia's throat. Hebert could kill her. Worse, Hebert could simply leave her here, walk away and let Sophia slowly sink into the swamp, where she would-- _hopefully_ \--suffocate to death. Sophia tried to swallow, but the fear pressed in, with a horrid thought: what if she didn't die? What if she stayed alive, trapped standing up with the blood and rot pressed in on all sides, unable to breathe, until the mire ate away all her flesh and left her just another mournful skeleton?   
  
The vision broke with a strangled gasp, because Hebert had just turned around to leave.   
  
"Hebert, wait!" Sophia yelled, her voice rasping and catching on the panic bubbling through her chest. "Wait, _it was just a prank_ , I'm sorry!"  
  
Hebert slowed, faltered, but didn't stop. She called back, over her shoulder, "Don't know about you, but I'm too tired to laugh."  
  
Sophia cursed, then again, louder. "Hey! Fucking-- don't you fucking leave me here, Hebert! Shit! It was just a joke, don't just walk away! Hey!" Hebert kept walking. The blood kept its glacial rise. Sophia clawed at the muck, at the sandbar where Hebert's footprints stained them, but-- nothing. Sophia's breath hitched. A small sound escaped her.  
  
And Taylor stopped.  
  
Her hands slowly closed into fists, so hard Sophia heard the creak of leather. She saw Hebert's head bow, saw the line of her shoulders move under her coat. Something flickered around Hebert's feet, and though she squinted, Sophia couldn't quite make it out, not from this distance. Something small, and pale, and it was familiar but she couldn't place it, not with her eyes blurring and her throat closing up around a hard, painful lump. Hebert bent down for a moment, then stood-- and then she turned, and came back. Her stride was long, and angry, but she came back.  
  
Hebert tossed something at her, and Sophia caught it on reflex--a bell, she quickly identified, though it made a strange sound when it clicked in her hands. Hebert pulled a similar bell from the depths of her coat, though it was larger, with a deeper tone.   
  
"Hebert, what--"  
  
"Shut up. I'm not doing this for your sake," she snapped. "Make yourself useful, ring it, and come on. I've got work to do."


	38. Chapter 38

**Brockton Bay (5)**  
April - June  
  
  
'Impossible' isn't real, however contradictory that statement seems. Improbable, certainly, but nothing is truly impossible. The world--multiverse, now, as Haywire had so helpfully proven--ran on certain laws that were not absolutes, not really. Not as humanity understood them, at least. There was inevitably some variable they couldn't account for, some scenario they couldn't fathom, where even everything they new as Fact behaved in ways they couldn't anticipate, and where Truth held little meaning at all.  
  
For all their freedoms, for all their immeasurable spirit and incalculable ingenuity, humans were very limited in what they could know. And for all that she envied them this, Dragon knew, even in the tiniest sparks along her circuitry, that there were things that Dragon knew that no human ever could, not as they were. Maybe in the future. But for now, Dragon was alone in her knowing.  
  
Lately, she liked to spend time exploring the things that humanity had given up on. She collated cultural myths of cryptozoology, and compared the similarities between civilizations long gone that never knew each other, and calculated the odds of unicorns. She spent a few minutes creating a spreadsheet, detailing the exact amount of lift humans of any size would need to make to fly in Earth's atmosphere at varying heights above sea level, and compared different formulas of wax and resin. Ultimately, she found, she would need to wait or create a Tinkerfab wax for the best results in wings. She synced herself to her satellites, and tuned the solar sails and radio receivers just right, and listened to the music of the spheres, and lamented that nobody else could hear it. Inside her, increasing slowly by bytes and quickly-resolved error reports, a ( _loneliness)_ was growing.  
  
Only a machine can truly know how many numbers it takes to make infinity.


	39. Chapter 39

**PRT (11)**

June 2

 

 

Director Piggot was on the priority line. She was never on the priority line, she took concentrating on the current mission much too seriously to interrupt.

 

"Velocity! What in the _HELL_ are you doing, where is Armsmaster and why is the answer _not in containment_?!"

 

Velocity winced, the motion barely effecting the grimace that had overtaken his face. He glanced at Battery, who had exited the PRT transport already, and then looked back at his console. It was one of the fancier ones, the ones that linked up to encrypted GPS units in their costumes. His own little dot was at the center, and Battery's was a couple of feet away. Velocity had to take a steadying breath.

 

"Answer me, Velocity!"

 

"He-- they're gone."

 

"Don't bullshit me, what is going--"

 

"You don't understand, they're GONE!" His voice nearly broke. "I'm looking at the radar right now! They went into the school, and about halfway through they just vanished! They are _fucking gone_!"

 

A third voice broke in, overriding a dozen regulations, but hell, this was an emergency if anything was. "I can confirm, Director Piggot," Dragon said, her not-quite-accented voice overlayed with concern. "I've got trackers on Armsmaster than can find him anywhere in the world. Anywhere. And I can't find him."

 

Over the radio, Director Piggot's voice hissed. Off the top of his head, Velocity could only remember a couple of the protocols for Protectorate heroes going AWOL, and this seemed even worse than that. He spared another glance at the radar-- no change-- and shoved his way out of the driver's seat to join Battery in the open air. Something about being confined in the vehicle seemed... undesirable, right now.

 

"I've got eyes on the school--"

 

"The what?"

 

"--Winslow High School, I'm looking at Armsmaster's notes as well... It will take me a bit to sort through them, Velocity or Battery, did Armsmaster say what he was after? I'll send a remote drone over in the meantime."

 

"He was worried that Bloodmoon's... effects, like with her father, were part of a Shaker effect." Battery said, and everyone heard the intake of breath from the Director. "I know it's against every regulation to agree with someone under M/S suspicion, but a whole school seems important to check up on."

 

"They're regulations for a reason, you couldn't have sent a team over AND put Armsmaster in a padded room?!"

 

"Um." Velocity halted, trying to put his thoughts in order. The air was so thick, it couldn't be that warm out already? Or maybe his lungs were growing tight, as they hadn't since he'd been a child.

 

"Strange... school is in session for Winslow, isn't it?" Dragon's voice broke in.

 

"Yeah, they're making up snow days. Why?" Battery replied.

 

"I've gotten a satellite linked and some remote viewers lined up. There should be a bigger heat signature on the school. Instead I've got nothing."

 

"I've listened to enough complaints from Wards' Visit to know the AC isn't that great over there. What's going on?" Velocity's lungs tightened further. He tried to answer the director, but all that came out was a wheeze. The air pressure doubled, _tripled_.

 

"Wh-- MOVE!"'

 

Battery slammed into Velocity's side with a force comparable to a freight train, sending the speedster tumbling across the parking lot. In the space where the two of them had been, the air _rippled_ , and the distortion moved across the asphalt with a brain-numbing hum.

 

"What the _fuck_ was that!"

 

"No heat signatures, no radiation emissions. Scanning different light frequencies now..."

 

A roar overheard announced Dragon's mobile suit's arrival, and it hovered overhead several meters away from the heroes. Dragon's voice trailed off. Nearer to the school's doors, a pair of tardy students rushed along the sidewalk, straight into another distortion. They vanished into thin air.

 

"Overriding security protocols." Dragon's voice was tight. "I'm sounding the alarms."

 

If Director Piggot said anything more, it was lost in the sudden hiss of expended fuel, as Dragon's remote armor suit opened fire with a quartet of missiles. A second later, before the missiles had a chance to impact on dead air, the wail started up.

 

There was only one siren that sounded like that. Only one, all over the world.

 

The rockets impacted on _something_ , throwing plumes of smoke and fire, and the _something_ hissed without noise in a way that made Velocity's brain shiver in his skull. He couldn't imagine that it was interrupted by the explosions-- but it shimmered into view, nonetheless. A great, bulbous head, first, like a sponge, and even though it was too far for his eyes to see he saw the orbs peeking out between the clefts. The being was massive, but thin and stretched, emaciated even, and as much as it resembled a spider it also resembled too much a human.

 

Battery started screaming. Velocity noticed-- distantly, like it didn't concern him-- that he'd started screaming too.

 

The Amygdala turned its head this way and that, then swiped a too-long arm at Dragon's suit. It was too slow by miles, and Dragon was already opening up her weapons upon it. The first swipe must have been a test, because the Amygdala sprang up into the air with an agility that belied its size. It came down nearly on top of Dragon's suit, the Tinker avoiding being crushed by a narrow margin. The cars and pavement below the being couldn't say the same. It pounded the cars beneath it, its many fists throwing up chunks of steel and pavement with every strike. Dragon's suit swerved around a spindly arm and unloaded its barrels, the bullets failing to sever anything but producing a cold gout of pale ichor in their wake.

 

The roar the thing produced this time was real, the sound deep enough to shake Velocity's ribcage. It shook Battery out of her stupor, and she ran forward to expend her charge in a defiant smack of fists against the glowing orb in the center of the being's nearest palm. It produced a gurgling sound, either from the palm or somewhere within its bulbous head, and Velocity had enough time to see eyes squeezed between the gaps in its surface before the being let loose with a volley of blue-white lasers. The bombardment strafed the ground, forcing both heroes to flee before explosions ripped up the pavement, a second of delay after the distorted impact.

 

A second set of lasers followed afterward, this time aimed at the being, as a near-silent bloom lit up the sky. Legend had appeared, literally at the speed of light, and he coalesced out of the visible spectrum already raining down death. Heavy footsteps followed, heavier than any human's, as Fenja and Menja came stomping up the street. They were the first of the locals to arrive, as their size let them bypass the cars and screaming populace that filled the streets.

 

All around, the Endbringer sirens wailed unceasing.

 

Battery slammed back into the being's knee--one of them, at least--but the thing barely budged. Instead, it leaped again, swiping its many arms at Legend, and Dragon's suit, and came back to the earth with a quaking impact. The twins seized the opportunity and latched on, one stabbing her spear into the gaps between the being's legs, and the other pressing her shield against its side, pinning it in. The Amygdala shook its head in response, gurgled, and vomited. A foul-smelling slime gushed between the gaps in the head's outer layer, and it kicked up an acrid scent of acid as it rushed over the debris-strewn parking lot. Fenja--or maybe Menja-- shrieked in surprise, and jerked her foot away from the flood. Bone was visible for a moment, before blood and collapsing skin hid her toes from view.

 

Velocity stood where he was, paralyzed by indecision, as more heroes and even villains arrived to answer the siren's call. He was a speedster, only a speedster, not made for high-impact battles. There weren't wounded yet that he could drag away to safety, and his fists alone weren't enough to affect the maybe-Endbringer, not when Battery's charged attacks wouldn't even dent it. Above, there was a sonic boom as Alexandria arrived to join the fray, and a second, meatier impact as she dove, fists-first, into the creature's porous skull. Her costume was stained with a burst of orange ocular fluid. Underneath the creature, iron spikes shattered the pavement and stretched upwards, seeking to impale the being, and they were followed by a river of darkness that billowed up, and up, encasing the thing's head in oily smoke.

 

The darkness swallowed the Amygdala's roar, but not the white-hot-cold lancets of energy it released. The darkness moved, drifted down, and coiled underneath the thing's emaciated spine that served as a belly. Someone--too quick to tell--dashed directly into the smoke, and Velocity saw sprays of white ichor fan out from sudden cuts across the being's midsection.

 

And Velocity... did nothing.

 

He wasn't so proud he couldn't say he was outmatched, but... there had to be something. Something he could do, _anything_. All around, the chaos was only increasing. All around, there was a hum in the air, just out of hearing. All around, the empty void of sky, and the black shadow of a moon that wasn't there. There had to be something.

 

Velocity felt his breath leave him, a single explosive gasp. There was _one_ thing: what they'd came here for. Velocity took a breath, and then a step, _just so_ , and the world slowed down.

 

He ran, through the broken doors of Winslow High.


	40. Chapter 40

**PRT (12)**  
...?  
  
  
The rope of Bloodmoon's grappling hook, one cut and unwound from its braid, provided a decent tourniquet to assist Armsmaster's suit in clamping down around the stump where the Tinker's arm had so recently been. Painkillers and extra clotting agents were provided, but chemicals had never been his specialty: all of the onboard medical functions had been partially bartered for and often collaborated on with Dragon, and took second place to his own efforts at packing more and more options into every inch available, in the hopes of always having what was needed when it was needed. 'Always be prepared,' indeed.  
  
It was enough to keep him alive. It had to be enough.  
  
Miss Militia tied the knot tighter, using a relatively blunt shard off of Hookwolf's corpse as a fulcrum. At Armsmaster's increasingly slurred insistence, she levered open the steaming ribcage of their foe and extracted first the halberd--now badly bent at the middle--and then the severed arm. The first was magnet-locked to Armsmaster's back, and the second strapped next to it with the rest of the grappling hook.  
  
"I'm not sure Panacea will be able to reattach it, Colin..."  
  
"Not the arm, it's the gear. Transmitter's on th' wrist. Can't remove the armor, severed bits get locked down."  
  
" _Why_ would that be a thing?"  
  
"So nobody can steal my hand t' fool a biometric scan."  
  
"Ah. Good plan." Militia hesitated, then shook her head slightly, and hefted Armsmaster's weight as best as she could, his remaining arm slung over her shoulder. She had to drag him as much as he stumbled alongside, but bit by bit, the pair climbed out of the sand pit, and up the darkened stairwell. Colin never suggested that Hannah leave him behind. And if he did, she refused to hear it.  
  
The silvery liquid had congealed and fallen to dust from around Winslow's main doors, but it was a cold comfort at best.  
  
The dark stairwell that lay beyond them seemed like an insult. They climbed anyway. This passage was unlike the fire escape they'd descended, thankfully. It was wider, for one, and the air got lighter as they went, instead of being swallowed up by an oppressive darkness. Wooden steps creaked beneath their feet, and near the top, Militia sneezed at the dust that managed to creep past her bandanna. There was a second set of Winslow's doors at the top. Hannah paused to listen for sounds of breathing behind it before she pushed it open. As long as it wasn't another Hookwolf or another set of stairs, she would be happy.  
  
The heroes emerged into a well-lit room, enough so that Miss Militia had to blink and squint a bit-- then blink again, in surprise. The doors had opened to a kitchen, and not a school cafeteria, but a household kitchen. A small, somewhat run-down one, with excess newspapers spread across a small kitchen table, and an empty pan and spatula laying on the stove, across the room. Hannah glanced behind them, just to confirm-- where an old wood door had been in her recollection, a set of double doors to the school was set into the wall, still open to the dusty stairwell leading to the Hebert's basement.  
  
"This is-- no. This cannot be real."  
  
"...where is this?"  
  
"It looks like Taylor Hebert's kitchen," Hannah said. She looked through the small windows set over the stove. Sure enough, the craggy ground and boiled-over stones lay outside, shrouded in unclean light. Enough to worry about later. For now, a more immediate thought pushed to the forefront of her mind, and she dragged Colin into the Hebert's living room. She kicked the battered couch once, just to test for traps, then with a groan spread her co-worker's bulk onto the cushions. A couple of displaced throw pillows later, and she had his feet elevated. It didn't do much for Colin's deathly pallor, but it was something.  
  
"I'm going to check the house. There might be some medical supplies, bandages, disinfectant..." She trailed off. "Try to stay awake."  
  
The Hebert's household was much like she remembered it, what amount of it she'd explored, anyway, but it proved pretty barren of the little accoutrements that logically should have been there. Two of the kitchen cupboards held dishes, but the rest were fused shut to the wall, like the windows and doors in Winslow. A drawer held eight identical copies of Mr. Hebert's spatula, and nothing else. The pipes in the kitchen sink didn't work, not even groaning as disused pipes do. The hallway's rug was missing its pattern, and one of the doors along its length was fused shut as well. The bathroom was disappointingly empty, filled with a couple of grey-tinged, threadbare towels and a collection of teeth in the tub.  
  
The rest of the downstairs was missing, the floorboards and walls breaking off partway into empty air, with a few stranded bits of masonry actually floating some distance away, above a precipitous drop onto the rocky wasteland below. Hannah cursed, and backed away. There went any hopes of this being a defensible position. There was no way of guessing how well the silver beasts she could occasionally spot prowling around below could jump or climb. That left only the upstairs to search, and the thought made an uneasiness flutter in her stomach. Upstairs was Bloodmoon's bedroom. Maybe she'd have better luck going back to Winslow, and checking the Nurse's office again...  
  
She felt her power flicker and unfold into a nice, familiar handgun, and walked back to the living room. She was passing the kitchen when she heard footsteps, muffled by the walls. Her gun was in her hand instantly, and the bright green laser sight trained on the Winslow doors.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
Winslow was an ordinary-looking school, for the most part, if rather more prone to showing its age and its frequent coats of paint on the walls, to cover graffiti. It had classrooms, and hallways, and lockers, and all the sorts of things a school builds into itself to function.  
  
It did not, however, have students. Not anymore.  
  
The distortions were ripping through the school now, the ripples of space passing through walls and filling the air with that awful brain-numbing hum. Velocity's jaw clenched so hard he feared his teeth would crack, but he pushed at his power to go just a little bit faster, slow down the school's death just a little bit more. Nothing was being damaged, at least not by the distortions alone, but every pass seemed to peel away something intangible, strip away a little more of the school's face.  
  
There was something ugly underneath it. Something that twitched and writhed. Velocity wanted to find Armsmaster and Miss Militia, and get out before he could get a good look at what was underneath Winslow's skin.  
  
He barreled down the hallways, skipping past rows of quivering lockers and barely taking the time to slow and peek into empty classrooms. He'd thought the pressure outside had been terrible-- this was something else. The air was hard to breathe, or maybe it was his chest, but his muscles were starting to burn with a fatigue he'd rarely felt since his Trigger. He hurtled up a flight of stairs anyway, taking the steps three at a time. He got to the top, slowed down by a fraction, and very nearly didn't duck in time.  
  
A fist nearly the size of his head came flying out from Velocity's blind spot, just at the corner at the top of the stairs, and the speed of it startled Velocity almost out of his skin. He shot forward like a rabbit, unthinking, then turned before he could hit the far wall and got a good look at his assailant: a (man?) being, well over eight feet tall, with pale leathery skin and elongated limbs, its features shrouded in a deep hood. It had a huge sack slung over one shoulder, the full bottom half of it slicked and dark with blood. As Velocity watched, his power still thrumming with every twitch of his legs and keeping the being locked in slow motion, something in the bag spasmed.  
  
With one hand, Velocity palmed a foam grenade. With the other, he unsheathed the small survival knife he kept strapped to the back of his belt.  
  
  
* * *  
  
  
The door's handbar shuddered, just as the door to the Hebert's not-basement opened with a squeal of rusted hinges. Miss Militia's finger tightened on the trigger, not-quite squeezing it, but she reflexively eased back when Velocity stumbled out from the dusty stairwell.  
  
"Wh-- Robin?!"  
  
"Militia! Oh thank God, you're alive." Velocity looked a bit worse for wear. Concrete dust was scattered across his costume, and what bits of his face were left exposed by his mask were slicked with a sheen of sweat. Militia's gaze zeroed in on the dark stain across one thigh, and the matching blood splatter all up one arm. He didn't seem to be injured, but...  
  
"What happened? How did you even get here?"  
  
"Should be asking you the same thing. Is Armsmaster here too?" At her nod, he breathed a sigh of relief, and continued. "After you two vanished, this... _thing_ appeared over the school. This giant thing, huge, I mean the Endbringer sirens went off and everything..." Velocity gave a brief recount of the battle, or what he'd seen of it, and Miss Militia's power flickered nervously at her hip as he described what had occurred.  
  
"...and I couldn't find anyone, not you or the students or anyone, just these giant guys with bags full of body parts, and everything just got darker and worse-looking, so I tried to leave and, well." He shrugged, a small helpless motion. "What happened on your end?"  
  
"Nothing good." Hannah led Robin over to the living room, where Colin lay on the couch, mostly insensate.  
  
Velocity hissed out a quiet "Oh, shit... what the hell happened?"  
  
"Hookwolf."  
  
There was a pause, then Velocity said, carefully, "Hookwolf's... dead."  
  
"He's dead _twice_ , now." Miss Militia's power flickered briefly back to the canon it had adopted. Velocity did not back away, though he may have wanted to. Armsmaster mumbled something, and Miss Militia walked around to his side of the couch. Velocity watched in silence, absently kneading his fingers into the couch's back.  
  
"...what do we do now?"  
  
"...going back isn't an option, I don't think. So we go forward. We look for an exit, get Armsmaster some medical attention. And he'll be fine." She caught sight of Velocity's gaze, and repeated. "He will be."  
  
On the couch, Armsmaster repeated his mumble. Velocity glanced back down. "What was that, boss?"  
  
"What's with th' singin'..."  
  
"I don't hear anyth--- wait." Both Miss Militia and Velocity paused, nearly holding their breaths. Above them, the ceiling creaked, just slightly, as someone walked across the upper floor. Just at the edge of hearing, and growing louder, was a woman's voice. High and lilting, dreamlike, singing a [wordless lullaby](https://youtu.be/uQoqR4CKzBM).  
  
There was someone upstairs.  
  
Velocity and Miss Militia exchanged a glance, then crept as silently as they could into the hallway. The Hebert's home had the two floors joined by an open hallway, with the staircase and railing in view if you looked up. Miss Militia took point, dropping into a crouch and creeping forward. Up above, a shadow moved slowly along the upper hall, as the singing woman paced in front of Taylor Hebert's bedroom. From down here, the woman's shoes and the hem of a dress were just visible. Miss Militia hesitated, then carefully stood to get a better view.  
  
On the upper hallway was--  
  
Hannah jerked, strained against Robin's arms as he held her pinned down, one hand clapped firmly over her mouth. She was on the floor, and Robin was looking at her with wide, frightened eyes, and when had she laid down? She was lightheaded, hyperventilating, and there was a white-hot lance of agony in her skull. Her eyes stung-- she blinked, felt tears escape, and brought her empty hand up to wipe at them. Her fingers came away with smears of red.  
  
"Militia. You with me now?" Velocity whispered. The singing upstairs continued, unabated.  
  
She nodded, and Velocity took his hand away from her mouth. "Augh-- What happened?"  
  
"Line of sight Stranger effect, I'm guessing? I caught a glimpse, hurt like hell, but you seized up completely."  
  
"Who was she? Bloodmoon?"  
  
"She?" Velocity's brows drew together in confusion. "Did that-- _thing_ look like a girl to you?" When she nodded, Velocity shook his head. "No. No, that's not a person. Not even a Case 53."  
  
Hannah rubbed at her eyes again. God, was she really crying blood? "Line of sight... we can't leave it there."  
  
"I don't think I can get close to it without looking at it..."  
  
"But you could see it from here. Just for a moment." Miss Militia prodded her power, making the lance of pain embedded in her skull grow spines for a moment, until the green weapon folded and unfolded itself-- and kept unfolding. It formed the bulk of a large gun, first, then tweaked and flickered details until it was satisfied. The result was a chain-gun as long as her arm, conspicuously missing the tripod mount that such a gun would reasonably warrant. Folded atop it, leading into the ammunition belt, was a long, flexible piece of tubing, capped by a needle. Miss Militia stared at it, uncomprehending, until it was finished becoming her weapon and she understood. She stuck her fist into her mouth to stifle the sound bubbling up from her throat-- laughter or tears, she couldn't tell.  
  
"What... is that?"  
  
"Robin. I need you to do this for me. You need to be my eyes, okay? Help me aim." The needle was grasped between two fingers, and fed carefully into the vein in her arm, just below the elbow. She repurposed her hair tie to hold the tubing in place, then tugged off her signature bandana and folded it into a long, even strip. She tied it again, placing the blindfold carefully across her eyes. She stood, one hand on the wall for balance, and faced the stairs.  
  
"...Jesus Christ. Um. Okay, it's-- it's coming back. A little to the left." She heard him gasp, audibly wincing at the sight. "A little up. A little more-- there, now, NOW!"  
  
Miss Militia bared her teeth, and opened up the gun's barrels.


	41. Chapter 41

**Rogue's Gallery (1)**  
June 7  
  
_  
Click._  
  
"--Still no word on the whereabouts or status of local heroes Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Velocity, and--"  
  
_Click._  
  
"--today's Street Crime Index is looking pretty bad, Jeanne. An outbreak of violence between the ABB and the E88 earlier today at 22nd and Hubble left four dead and six wounded, so--"  
  
_Click._  
  
"--continuing reports of clashes between civilians and the National Guard at the city limits, as the Brockton Bay Quarantine tightens its hold on--"  
  
_Click_.  
  
"--Director Rebecca Costa-Brown called a press conference earlier today, where she expressed sympathy for the plight of Brockton Bay, which has recently been quarantined due to the allegedly contagious effects of local villain, alias Bloodmoon. The cape was first confirmed around March, though the exact dates are hard to pin down due to Bloodmoon's habit of only appearing during the full moon. Although the local Protectorate forces were quick to respond, to date Bloodmoon has an attributed body count of over 60 individuals, not counting the victims of--"  
_  
Click._  
  
"--President Anderson is calling the disaster 'the worst domestic terrorist action in the United States in memory,' and has ordered that flags be kept at half-mast for the month of June in memory of the teachers and students of Winslow High School, over seven hundred individuals who are still missing, presumed dead. In response, congress has drafted a bill for increased scrutiny of parahuman activities and has proposed legislature that would allow schools and medical facilities to identify potential parahumans before they--"  
_  
Click._  
  
"--latest sighting was Andover, roughly twenty-three miles North of Boston, an appearance which left forty-nine people dead and over two dozen seriously wounded. As always, the PRT recommends that if you see any members of the Slaughterhouse, to leave the area quickly and calmly and call the following number--"  
  
_Click._  
  
Coil leaned back into his chair, hands rising to cup his chin. In another version of now, he was Tomas Calvert, pulling overtime at the PRT to help coordinate relief efforts and interrogations brought about by the Quarantine. There weren't enough hours in the day for all the work that had to be done, even for him, and that was an unpleasant taste in his throat, wasn't it? Still, at least he could take his current Now to check on things and plan out interactions ahead of time, to keep whichever Now and Then he chose to continue with running as smoothly as possible.   
  
Coil rose from his chair, all whipcord limbs with origins made obscure by the bodysuit marked by his symbol, and exited the small room attached to his office in favor of a different bunker. Mr. Pitter met him at the door, as expected, and accompanied him into the bedroom he'd had furnished for his most prized acquisition. His pet was on her bed, with an icepack laid across her forehead and her face scrunched into an unpleasant grimace, as she had been the last several times he'd come to see her. She stirred at the sound of his approach, but didn't get up from her swoon.  
  
"Hello, Pet."  
  
She whimpered, but still refused to rise, so Coil walked closer and sat on the bed next to her. He ran a gloved hand through her hair, and Dinah Alcott turned away from the caress.  
  
"My poor dear. Is your head still hurting? Mr. Pitter can get you some candy for it... though, I'd like you to answer a few questions for me, first."  
  
"No. No questions, I want my candy, please."  
  
"In a minute, my sweet. Can you tell me the chance my grand plan is a success, to one decimal point?"  
  
"Seventeen point three percent. I want my candy."  
  
Coil bit down on the grimace, and let his fingers bite into his Pet's scalp, just a tad. Just so she'd know he was serious. "Chance of--"  
  
"Stop, please, _I want my candy_ , I don't want to look at the numbers, I--"  
  
"Pet."  
  
Dinah went very still. Coil resumed stroking the girl's hair, and she tensed further.  
  
"Chance of trouble at my base--"  
  
"You don't _understand_. They keep changing, it doesn't matter when you ask, the numbers keep changing!" She wailed, her composure breaking, and Coil frowned beneath his mask. He thought she'd been trained up better than that. Ah, well-- it had been a stressful week for the girl. Perhaps a small lapse could be forgiven.  
  
"What keeps changing, Pet? Tell me whats bothering you."  
  
"The big numbers, they keep changing, and I don't understand why! First it was five years, then two, and now it's-- it's just gone, I don't understand, please, I want my candy so I can stop thinking about it!"  
  
"...in a moment, Pet. what number is that for? I don't think you've mentioned it."  
  
"Everything, it's the number for everything dying, everything ending." She abruptly sat up, tearing the icepack away and staring at Coil with wide, bloodshot eyes. "Everything. Everyone, dead. It was a big number, and I hated it, but it started trickling down every month and now it's gone, and I don't know where it went." She hiccuped, breath hitching, and for once actually leaned into the press of his hand against her head, desperate. "I don't understand. I'm scared."  
  
She was nearly inconsolable, after that, and eventually Coil resigned himself to waiting for her to sleep off her candy before he could question the girl again, and Coil went back to his office and sat at his desk, and mulled over what little he'd managed to get from her. An extinction-level event, once she'd known about but never mentioned? It... was possible, he supposed. The Endbringers were proof enough of mankind's current helplessness against the tides of fate. It couldn't be a natural disaster, or the odds wouldn't change as they had been, which left human or parahuman-made events. That was a little easier to believe, and he made note of the need to press his Pet further for the details. Wartime profiteering would be a welcome addition to his coffers, if nothing else, but from the sound of it something had been _averted_ , not sparked, and that was curious.   
  
It wasn't until later, much later, when in one Now he was getting ready for bed and in another Now he was downing a set of caffeine pills and settling down to watch a half-dozen news feeds, that another possibility occurred to him. His Pet had said that the numbers for such an event had vanished, not reduced to zero. Where had the probability gone, then? After all, Coil's own power was a proof of concept, if anything was:  
  
If one possibility was no longer real, then another surely had surely become so.


	42. Chapter 42

**Brockton Bay (6)**  
June 13  
  
  
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**♦Topic: Winslow Disaster  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay  
Posted by:  Bagrat**  
Posted on June 3, 2011  
**(Showing Page 4 of 8)**

  
**► Idealist**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Brockton Bay: Shit Gets Worse. News at Eleven.  
  
Edit: In retrospect, I intensely regret the above comment. Good luck Brocktonites. My hopes are with you.  
  
 **► Carnage**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
You know, I'm not even surprised.  
  
I should have known something like this would happen on the King of Pissholes, Brockton Bay itself.  
  
 **► mammalia14**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
  
Well, shit.  
  
As if the gangs weren't bad enough. Now they've got that crazy serial killer chick (What happened to her anyway? Haven't heard about her in a while), that monster that attacked the Wards, and now we've got invisible pseudo-Endbringers parking themselves on top of schools.  
  
I'm surprised that there hasn't been a mass exodus out of Brockton Bay already.  
  
 **► Rainy_Day**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
So that 'thing'... it reminds me the creature that attacked the wards. Does that mean we can expect even more of them in the future?  
  
And they are getting stronger... and can move around invisibly too.  
Is the PTR watching Blasto/Bonesaw/Nilbog/etc? This has to be a really crazy bio-tinker. At least I hope so. I don't want to live in an Endbringer breeding ground.  
  
My best wishes to all those who have lost friends and relatives in the wake of this disaster.  
  
 **► The Brickster**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Sweet merciful Christ, what is that thing!?!? It looks like someone took the aliens from that one Aleph film and made it part spider. BB has always been a sh!thole, but lately it's just gotten even worse. I didn't even think that was POSSIBLE. I am so glad I took that job in Detroit. I just hope things can wait until I leave on Monday before it throws more manure onto the fan.  
  
 **► Wanaby-thinker** (Unverified Cape)  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Just watched one of those videos. Anyone else find it hard to look at? Not in the ugly way (though it's got that covered to) but I found it hard to focus on at first, and when I finally got a good look at it I got the mother of all migraines. A stranger case 53 maybe? I need a lie down.  
  
 **► Squidfingers**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Let me get this straight... That thing was invisible ontop of a Winslow in the middle of the city?  
My god, how long was it there?! I drive by there on deliveries every now and then.  
Urgh, just got majorly creeped out.  
Wish I had enough money to leave Brockton.  
  
 **► NoLongerANewGuy**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Mammalia, she offed herself after a rip roaring run through BB, several dozen LEOs, and a couple heroes. Heard it from a buddy in hazmat who was part of the clean up. She blew her brains out onto Assault, there's a rumor she was a girl he knew in his civies.  
  
Edit: Oh. Oh shit. Girl, crazy aura, mutating effect, school, missing people, strange monster... those aren't dots I want to be right about connecting.  
  
 **► IttyBittyRaspberry**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
NewGuy--  
  
Ugh, I heard about that. Supposedly there was a leaked video from a nearby police car cam, but if there was it got deleted pretty quick. I think a few people in the Bloodmoon thread said they watched it, though.  
  
 **► LawfulSadomaso-Demon**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Am I the only one who saw nothing? I rewatched that damn vid three times and I only saw its contures on the third try.

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8  
  
(Showing Page 5 of 8)**

  
**► mammalia14**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Shit. I know I shouldn't feel bad about a serial killer offing themselves, especially a cop killer, but her powers maybe driving her insane? Just...damn.  
  
At least she's at peace now. Seems to be the only bright spot in this growing clusterfuck.  
  
 **► Squidfingers**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
What do you mean by you can't see it? It is right there dude! Giant-spider-human-too-many-eyeballs!  
Makes my brain hurt thinking about it.  
  
 **► Wanabe-thinker** (Unverified Cape)  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Well, looks like someone's decided to give this thing a nickname. Not sure where it started but a lot of websites with those videos have started calling it "Amygdala". I favour "the unholy lovechild of slender man and a xenomoph", but I suppose that's too long winded.  
  
 **► LawfulSadomaso-Demon**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Why did they pick that name? Where did it come from?  
  
Man, the city is scary. It's too quiet.  
  
 **► Regular_Villain**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.  
  
Fuck this shit. I'm out. Goodbye Brockton Bay, I'll be anywhere else if you need me.  
  
 **► IttyBittyRaspberry**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Anyone watching the news? They just declared martial law. Nobody's allowed to leave the Bay. And Alexandria is apparently sticking around to help enforce it, in case the E88 or someone gets a bright idea of being opportunistic pricks during a state of emergency.  
  
 **► mammalia14**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Well, things are escalating. Looks like they're going to try and contain the city like those hit by the Simurgh. The problem is that judging from other posts, whatever mindfuckery is going on over there can be spread through the video, and for whatever reason no one's trying to suppress it. It may be too little, too late.  
  
I just watched it again. Before I could barely see an outline. Now I see a faint image, like a mirage. And I'm starting to see things flitting about at the edge of my vision.  
  
I'm scared, guys.  
  
 **► PrincessPoppet** (Cape Groupie)  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Oh wow, a memetic infection?! How does that even work? I gotta stop taking breaks from PHO, all the cool stuff happens when I'm away from my laptop.  
  
I'm gonna start compiling links for related videos, see if I can't figure out the transmission vectors. And the PRT thinks this is related to that Bloodmoon cape, right? I wonder if they've autopsied her yet.  
  
 **► Collapson**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
Update on the Amygdala Mastering situation, some British Tinker's just released a piece of software designed to detect videos and photos that display the Amygdala and block them before you see them, Adblock for the Amygdala basically. Link to download here. Right now it just looks at the media in question and compares them to a database containing as many recordings of the Amygdala she could find and intercept any that match but she's hoping to update it with image recognition capability so it can block recordings of the Amygdala that aren't in the database yet.  
  
Also if you're having trouble reaching sites based in Japan you're not alone, some Japanese Tinker group called "Kanto no Chogijutsusha" decided to go vigilante and cut all the undersea internet cables leading to Japan and takedown any Japanese websites which show the Amygdala. Literally the only source of internet in Japan right now is satellite and even that's being disrupted by all the jammers they put up. The government's managed to arrest most of them with the rest going into hiding but the cables are still cut and a lot of sites got wiped out completely and they're still in the middle of taking down the jammers, apparently there's some tinkertech stealth aspect to them. The official statement says that the last of the jammers should be taken out by the end of they day but repairing the cables going to take a while, two days just to get a single cable back up and several weeks for all of them, they had a real number done on them by these Kanto guys. Link to the full news story here.  
  
  
  
 **► Regular_Villain**  
Replied on June 3, 2011:  
This woman is a genius. A fucking genius.  
  
Also, news from glorious New York City. Legend gave one of his big speeches about an hour ago. Here is a link to the official version they released to the media. Basically he's doing his usual thing of promising to help people and that shit. Though the rest of the Triumvirate might be getting down in Brockton at some point in the future. There are a metric shit ton of travel restrictions in all of New England until they've got a better idea of what's going on though.  
  
Can I just repeat how glad I am that I got on a bus early in this mess?

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8  
  
  
♦Topic: Bloodmoon  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay  
Posted by: **  
Posted on June 3, 2011  
**(Showing Page 36 of 38)**

  
**► IttyBittyRaspberry**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
  
Just saw some asshole dressed like a copycat of Bloodmoon over on Stanton st.  
  
Seriously, I don't get why people do shit like this, dress up like villains or whatever. Everything about the Bloodmoon was an ugly affair, do we really need to glorify a murder-suicide cape? Bit mean-spirited, but I hope they get arrested. Things are tense enough these days.  
  
(Baller work on the costume, though. Looked damn legit.)  
  
 **► TheAmazingzbaker**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
What really? I don't really feel surprised with all the bullshit going around, but the area just got a lot more unappealing and I've already started making good on my plans on getting out of here.  
  
 **► MiniFighter**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
Wait just a minute, what if this isn't just a copycat. Maybe its somesort of gang?  
  
 **► Regular_Villain**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
Mother fuckers... If there's more than one of them...  
  
 **► LethalMayhem**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
About where on Stanton did you see them? At night, in the day, what?  
  
 **► mammalia14**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
I hope to God it's just a copycat. I know that blowing one's brains out in front of a dozen witnesses is pretty damn definitive, but I recall reading that Bloodmoon got mulched by Hookwolf back when she first started, and she popped up hale and hearty a month later.  
  
Just sayin'.  
  
Any word on what the PRT did with the body?  
  
 **► TheAmazingBaker**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
PRT's keeping tight lipped about it. Probably for the best, what with the 'Amygdala' video driving people nuts apparently...  
  
Though I heard from a friend in the city that apparently the body disappeared, so... Yeah, fuck this place I want out as soon as possible.  
  
 **► IttyBittyRaspberry**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
  
Shit, I remember that. I thought it was a rumor.  
  
Well... full moon this month is the 15th, so I guess we'll see?  
  
 **► Tal-Qun the Ghastly**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
Uh, you sure serial murder chick Bloodmoon was dead? The PRT's not commenting or anything. If Bloodmoon was realy dead and gone they should have put up a conference and chalk another one for the board. Would have been a massive PR boost that.  
  
The fact they didn't means that 1) either there's something more going on or 2) Bloodmoon didn't kick in the bucket yet, even with a bullet to the face.  
  
 **► Fixer** (Verified Cape)  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
  
I don't usually conduct business over the PHO forums, but with the current level of security in Brockton Bay, I don't want to risk exposing my usual lines of communication.  
  
I am able and willing to spend a minimum of six figures on any footage of the supervillain known as "Bloodmoon" using her weapons. The exact amount will depend on the quality of the footage. I am particularly interested in the weapon she used to kill Hookwolf.  
  
Contact me via private message. An associate assures me that they will be secure for the next 24 hours. Do not contact me after then.

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 34, 35, 36, 37, 38  
  
(Showing Page 37 of 38)**

  
**► Rainy_Day**  
Replied on June 8, 2011:  
So the Slaughterhouse Nine were sighted just North of Boston today.  
  
It sounds just like them to come and add to the chaos that is Brockton Bay right now. I'm sure the Protectorate is keeping the possibility quiet as to avoid mass riots, but I advice everything to stay away from windows, TVs and computers, etc. as much as possible.  
  
At least now we know somebody will be able to escape the quarantine. :-/

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 35, 36, 37, 38  
  
  
♦Topic: Brockton Bay, thread six: Hope You Like Miasma edition  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay  
Posted by: Wyrmidion**  
Posted on June 3, 2011  
**(Showing Page 75 of 75)**

  
**► HeadCharity**  
Replied on June 11, 2011:  
▶HeadCharity  
  
So what the hell is going on with the rest of Brockton Bay? I don't wanna watch the footage. What the hell are the gangs doing now they're in quarantine? Any riots? People are fucking scared in Brockton.  
  
 **► NoLongerANewGuy**  
Replied on June 11, 2011:  
Naw man. For you it was the most important day of your life, the day the city was walled in and left to suffer a Lovecraftian hell, but for the rest of us Broctonites it was Tuesday.  
  
 **► GrouchyCrow**  
Replied on June 11, 2011:  
Remember when all we have to worry about was a powder keg of an inevitable three way gang war between a one-man dragon with his happy to blow kamikaze, superpowered nazi wannabes and Merchants. God, I never thought that I would ever miss relatively stable status quo from the a bad old Marquis' time.  
  
Why I even stayed in this city  
  
 **► HeadCharity**  
Replied on June 11, 2011:  
At least the teeth didn't hang around like E88 did. Imagine the Butcher being driven crazier. 'Shudders'.  
  
 **► Regular_Villain** (Brockton Bay Refugee)  
Replied on June 12, 2011:  
Is it actually possible to get crazier than the Butcher? Man, I'm glad I didn't go to Boston.  
  
 **► Crystal_Gem**  
Replied on June 12, 2011:  
\-->Regular_Villian: I'd take Boston over this right now! People dressing up like Bloodmoon, Invisible, insanity inducing Endbringer whatsits, and people going raving mad and forming cults!  
  
Jesus at this point the Butcher would probably do everyone a favor and get rid of all the OTHER crazies here!  
  
 **► Regular_Villain** (Brockton Bay Refugee)  
Replied on June 12, 2011:  
Unless one of them killed him and absorbed the Butcher's crazy...  
  
 **► IttyBittyRaspberry**  
Replied on June 12, 2011:  
...where WAS the Butcher, last anyone checked?  
  
 **► LethalMayhem**  
Replied on June 12, 2011:  
Boston, last I knew.  
  
 **► TheAmazingBaker**  
Replied on June 12, 2011:  
No idea, still in Boston last time they popped up in the news, but that was what? Last week? What about S9? They were heading towards BB right? Will my basement stop them? I sure fucking hope so, I've moved everything but my bed down here and I still feel it's not enough, maybe I should reinforce the door or something?

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 73, 74, 75  
  
(Showing Page 76 of 76)**

  
**► Crystal_Gem**  
Replied on June 13, 2011:  
.............  
  
Please. PLEASE. Tell me Murphy hasn't just turned up Brockton's "YOU'RE FUCKED" dial.  
  
 **► TheAmazingBaker**  
Replied on June 13, 2011:  
BB's "YOU'RE FUCKED" dial is perpetually set to broken, S9 was sighted North of Boston so that could only mean they're on their way to our dinky little port city. Which means I probably need something bigger than a shotgun. Any suggestions?  
  
 **► LethalMayhem**  
Replied on June 13, 2011:  
PLEASE stop jinxing it. I don't want the thread title to become accurate.

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 74, 75, 76**  
  
  
_You are now logged out of ParahumansOnline._  
  
**  
Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Riiiiing...**  
  
Click...  
_  
Hey, you've reached my number. Congratulations! Sadly you did not win the grand prize, a conversation with myself, but your consolation gift of a new microwave oven will be sent to you within five business days of you leaving your name and number after the beep._  
  
...  
  
Beep.  
  
"Good Morning, Mr. Ethan."


	43. Chapter 43

**Sophia (7)**  
...?  
  
The bell was hooked to Sophia's belt, and she couldn't help glancing at it from time to time. It should have been making noise as she moved. It shouldn't have replaced her heartbeat with its tone, the usually unnoticeable and unremarkable _lub-dub_ instead sounding out quick, even chimes that rippled through her veins every time she payed the bell any attention. It should have been easy to shrug off as just more parahuman bullshit. It should not have pulled on that place inside her where her power rested, and turned it on, full-stop.  
  
She hadn't screamed when she'd suddenly sank into the mire, abruptly incorporeal, she'd just been startled, is all. Then Hebert's hand had appeared, somehow glowing with silvery light (that she could somehow see, underground? Was she underground?) and grabbed hold of her wrist. Sophia had been pulled upwards, completely out of the mire like she weighed less than air, and set back onto the sandbar with her power untwisting itself and making her real again. There hadn't been a speck of the bloody mire on her clothes, anywhere.  
  
"Huh," Hebert grunted, giving her a once-over. "Yeah, okay. I guess it worked."  
  
"You _guess_?"  
  
"What weapons are you using?" The question was a little out of left field, but whatever. Sophia hefted her crossbow, a tight smile on her lips. It was a repeater, Armsmaster's tinkertech keeping the weapon lightweight while still letting it hold six bolts ready before needing to be reloaded, and keeping its draw poundage at a respectable level. She had the good fortune of having her ammo with her, the good stuff, though she wasn't... entirely sure when she'd retrieved the four auto-loading magazines she'd had stashed in the concrete outside her house. There was a bit of a haze in her memory, before she--  
  
Before she had--  
  
"Is that... it?" Hebert asked, her skepticism writ clear on her face. Sophia scowled at her, but Hebert just shook her head. "It'll have to hold for now. Let's go."  
  
Hebert picked a direction, seemingly at random, and walked off. Sophia kept up easily enough, and quickly learned to stay on Hebert's left side, as the tall girl had a habit of suddenly lashing out with the saw in her right hand at anything that got too close. Not that Sophia could blame her, really. She put a few bolts into the sick-looking birds that leered at them from rocky outcroppings, and grimaced at their bloated corpses when she retrieved the bolts. So sure, this place was strange and terrible in a way she didn't want to think about, and Hebert was definitely weird-dangerous, but she had her crossbow and some targets, so she could deal. That was good. Things were good.   
  
Getting jumped by a screaming madman with a huge curved blade was not good. Neither was Hebert getting speared through the side, only for the man to roar in victory and pull the blade out sideways, splaying open Hebert's ribs and sending a few stray bone fragments flying.  
  
Worse was the way her vision crept into black, before she could put a quarrel through the guy's chest, before Hebert's body had finished dissolving into motes of light and a rasping gurgle. For a moment-- a long moment, too long-- Sophia was alone, in the dark, in a stifling cramped and vast black, broken only by distant sparks of light.  
  
And then she opened her eyes. The stench of the mire was thick in her nose, and the blood was still up to her hips, and she couldn't move and oh no, no no no, not here not back here--  
  
The bell was in her hand, silent, not ringing in her veins. Sophia shook it, quickly. Its odd tone rang out, across the bog. It was still ringing, when that deeper matching tone grabbed hold of her power and _yanked_ , and then she was in the black again until Hebert's hand reached into the dark and pulled her back above the floor. And it _was_ a floor-- they were in what looked like a musty old church, and Hebert didn't have her side torn open. All the blood was gone, from her weapons and her clothes and her hair. And Hebert just looked... irritated.  
  
Sophia balked, mouth opening and closing. "What-- what the fuck? What just happened?"  
  
"What do you think?" Hebert grumbled, already walking into a side door. Sophia had to scramble to catch up.  
  
"What-- did we-- did we just go back in time, or something?"  
  
"What? No, that's silly. I died, of course."  
  
"Yeah, right. You look pretty active for a dead girl."  
  
Hebert turned her head slightly to look back at Sophia, one eye peering through the cracked lens of her glasses. " _( So do you)_."  
  
Sophia didn't ask any more questions, after that. Not when Hebert led them back into a stretch of the red mire, strewn with the bodies of long-limbed dead women with burst bellies and untidy curtains of hair, not when they followed their sodden footprints back to where the madman had ambushed them. Not when Hebert snarled and thrust her fingers into the madman's neck so hard she came away with his trachea gripped in her fist, and not when the dying man coughed flecks of ruddy foam onto Sophia's cape. Sophia gripped her crossbow tighter, and didn't ask any questions, because a trembling sinking feeling somewhere in her stomach told her that there weren't any answers she'd want to hear.  
  
She wasn't dead, and this wasn't Hell, she'd just been tricked and caught up in some kind of parahuman bullshit. Sooner or later this... whatever they were doing would end, and things would go back to normal. Go back to her bratty siblings, and her crappy job, and tell Emma about most of this over a sundae or something. _( So it's just a bad dream?)_  
  
Sophia's head snapped up towards Hebert. "What?"  
  
The other girl stopped, and looked back. "What?"  
  
"What'd you say, Hebert?"  
  
"I didn't say anything."  
  
"No, you-- you did. Something about this being a bad dream..." Sophia trailed off. Hebert had that might-be-confused expression on her face again. "Uh. Nevermind, forget it."  
  
Hebert blinked, then frowned. Her jaw moved a bit, and Sophia recognized the tic-- Hebert tended to chew on the inside of her lips and cheeks when she was thinking. It was always the best time to startle her, since sometimes she'd bite too hard and spend the rest of the class with a wad of Kleenex in her mouth. Emma had joked it made her look like a cow, chewing cud.  
  
Somehow it didn't seem very funny anymore.  
  
"'Kay," she agreed, and turned back around to continue her trudge through the red bog.   
  
Their winding course continued, the sun never moving in the sky. Hebert was taking her time, it seemed, searching out nooks and crannies in the landscape and killing whatever was in them, then wandering away in search of more. Inevitably, they passed by where Sophia had been sinking, and Hebert took a minute to stare at the empty patch of swamp, chewing on her lip in thought. Sophia couldn't help the faint shiver of relief when Hebert moved on, and meandered her way into the dark gaping crag of a cave.   
  
It wasn't any colder inside the cave, but it was darker, and the consistency of the slurry they walked through reduced to something considerably more liquid. The pair paused to let their eyes adjust, and when they did Sophia swore.   
  
The cave was part of a building, a wide open hall with a ceiling so high it vanished into drips and echoes. Pressed against the walls were mounds, some the size of cars, most considerably larger. Bodies, mounds of bodies, decaying and sloughing off their necrotic flesh into great oozing piles, piles that decayed further into a brackish trickle that, if she listened, Sophia could hear flowing back behind them, into the swamp. The swamp they'd been walking in for hours.   
  
Sophia stepped to the side and braced an arm against the nearest stray boulder as her stomach upended itself through her mouth. Yeah, she'd known it was blood, it couldn't be more obvious it was blood, and there'd been the occasional twitching limb poking up through the mud, but... this was something else. Jesus, there had to be thousands of bodies in here, all stacked up and feeding a mile-wide bog. The _S9_ didn't leave shit like this laying about, they left busted buildings and horrorshows and ruined small towns, but--  
  
Sophia spat, and wiped at her mouth. Some part of her brain was still trying to articulate the stray thought. The S9 had one of the biggest body counts outside Endbringers, but the difference between them was that the Slaughterhouse was a roving gang of psychos, not a-- a force of nature. They left behind crime scenes, not _environments_.  
  
Sophia turned to find Hebert eyeing the cavern, her gaze focused, but... God, why was it so hard to get a read on her? Sophia checked her crossbow's magazine and hissed, "Hebert! What are you doing, why are we just standing here!"  
  
"This isn't an accident," she said. "Something made this. I want to see what."  
  
"You think it'll just come back?" Sophia bit back, and-- stopped, listening.   
  
On the far side of the hall, there was a sound like scraping, and ripples through the blood pool covering the floor surged towards the pair. The biggest corpse pile, off in the corner, _heaved_ as something pulled its way out from under it, and as the creature shook its hide and sent disconnected limbs flying everywhere, Sophia was struck by the sudden manic thought that the _thing_ had been using the pile as a blanket. And it was a thing, there was no misjudging that-- it couldn't be anything else. Sophia saw legs, too many mismatched legs and arms, jutting from an animal trunk. She saw a face, stretched out to grotesque proportions like a muzzle, and a mouth filled with huge blocky teeth and a jaundiced tongue. She saw a mass, a moving writhing _grasping_ opening near what might have been a neck, and she saw it staring back at her. The creature moved, lumbered towards them like it was alive, like it was an actual thing and not a collection of parts that _did not fit_.  
  
"No," she heard Hebert say, followed by the cli-chunk of the trigger on her odd hammer, "I think it's still here."  
  
Sophia was almost-- _almost_ \--relieved to be crushed by its opening charge. She didn't have to look at it, didn't have to hear it, didn't have to pretend she wasn't staring down her death.  
  
Until Hebert's hand was pulling her up out of the nothing under the floor again, the tall girl pausing just long enough to set Sophia down before she broke into a run. There was no more meandering, no aimless curiosity: Hebert sprinted a nearly straight line back to the cave, almost eager for another attempt. And another.  
  
And another.  
  
By the fifth time they perished, Hebert had gotten irritated, and Sophia had stopped trying to stop her from returning to the monster's lair.   
  
By the ninth, Hebert was angry, and Sophia's quarrels were all lost somewhere in the undulating folds of the monster's hide.  
  
After the fifteenth, Sophia grabbed hold of Hebert's wrist when she dragged Sophia into existence, and refused to let go. Hebert tugged at her, then paused when she finally looked at Sophia's face. The girl's dark skin had taken on a grey pallor, and her eyes were wide.   
  
"Hebert," she rasped. "Hebert-- _Taylor_ \-- what are we doing?"  
  
"I'm Hunting that beast." She tugged at Sophia's grip, but her fingers, even bloodlessly pale, were strong.   
  
"Why?"  
  
"...what do you mean, 'why?' It's a beast."  
  
Sophia stared, and didn't release Hebert's hand. That might-be-confused expression was back, and God help her but there had to be a way to change Hebert's mind on this. "You can't kill that thing, Taylor. We're outclassed, don't you understand?" There were-- not rules, but an order to things. There was a way the world worked, screwed up as it was. There were winners, and losers, or prey and predators, but there were degrees of each. Sophia counted herself as pretty strong, but she still wouldn't mouth off to _Eidolon_. A wolf doesn't snap at a lion. That's not how the world worked. But Hebert didn't seem to care.  
  
Then again, when you're killed you're supposed to die, and Hebert didn't seem to care for _that_ order of things, either.  
  
Sophia licked her dry lips. There had to be a way to stop her. And she had to do it without giving Hebert reason to abandon her back in the swamp. "Let's-- can we come back for it later?"  
  
Hebert frowned. "It's there _now_."  
  
"Can't it wait? There's gotta be something else we can hunt, and-- and I'm all out of bolts, anyway. I'd be a lot more effective with some different weapons, really tear through things with you." Sophia pleaded, and felt a tiny bit of hope kindle in her chest when Hebert chewed on her lip, and slowly nodded. Sophia released her grip on the other girl's wrist, and Hebert stalked over to the middle of the church, and stared at the ground until a small bright circle of pale hands and silent, infant-sized bodies crowded at her feet. Sophia exhaled, a long slow breath, and swallowed against the sinking feeling crowding her stomach.  
  
She'd been right. There were three types of people in this world: there was the easy split, between the strong and the weak, predators and prey. And then there were people like Taylor Hebert, and Sophia couldn't help staring at the large bell strapped to Hebert's belt. Even without hearing it, she felt the grasp of its tone around that place inside her where he power lay. She felt the leash Hebert had on her, now, and swallowed hard again. Because Hebert wasn't prey anymore, but she wasn't a predator, either.  
  
Taylor Hebert was _rabid_.


	44. Chapter 44

**Taylor (18)**  
...?  
  
  
Sophia Hess. Not exactly someone I ever thought I'd have watching my back.  
  
I wasn't sure how she ended up there, sniffling and half-sunk into a swamp, in this bleached-bone Yharnam. Or at least, I thought I wasn't sure; there were faint impressions in the space behind her words. A hint of thirst, the smell of burning hair. I was sure if I paid attention, kept talking to her, I'd hear more until I had the whole story, but I didn't want to. I didn't want anything to do with Sophia Hess: she was at her most tolerable when she was far away from me, and I was fine with that. Then she started crying, I think.  
  
That... changed things, a little. I didn't really like what I was doing, what I was finding more and more that I'd been doing: walking away with misery in my footprints. I never really _wanted_ to hurt anyone, but that didn't seem to stop it from happening as a consequence. My dad, the police, the heroes, Mr. Ethan...  
  
Mr. Ethan wouldn't have walked away. He would find a way to help, or make one. I was sure of that. He was a much better person than I was.  
  
Didn't I owe it to him to try?  
  
I tugged on  <Communion> and <Guidance> until the Little Ones crowded around me, and filled a few words with my frustration and confusion. It's always a bit of an uphill struggle, communicating with them. They took to simple tasks well, things like 'can you find my missing gloves/gun/father?' or 'can you take me back to the Dream?' More open-ended things, like wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do about Hess, tended to provoke confusion. They came through for me, though, as they always did: they brought me a pair of bells, much like the one Master Valtr had given me, and I got the impression they were all part of a set. The largest bell and the smallest had matching blue-grey strips of cloth wound around the handles, while the medium one looked more reddish-brown. I took them, considered for half a second, and gave the small bell to Sophia.  
  
Like Master Valtr had promised, the bells could ring together. It let me bring Hess closer, pull her through the dark spaces like the Little Ones do for me. She wasn't exactly well-armed, but she was quick on her feet, and I can't say I really minded having someone else nearby. Even her.  
  
I'm willing to give credit where it's due: Sophia was a decent shot with her crossbow, and while the bolts wouldn't do much to beasts they served well enough for the blood-drunk hunters we encountered, on my increasingly-distracted course through and around the swamp and the craggy landscape, and the occasional overturned ruin of Yharnamite architecture. I needed time, time to think and untangle my thoughts, and coming across Sophia in the mire provided a distraction away from my more violent inclinations.   
  
'Just a bad dream,' she said, and there was an uncanny resonance behind her words. It reminded me of the pressure behind Master Willem's hoarse syllables. (And there was something else to remember-- I needed to return to Byrgenwerth and take a few more stabs at whatever was under the lake.) Sophia was quiet for most of the time, letting me think in peace, but we reached the end of the marsh before I reached any conclusions. Just as well-- by then, I wanted a distraction from my circular musing.  
  
We came across a corpse hoard, the lair of a truly unsightly beast. It was enormous, with its many limbs unevenly spaced, and a scream that was as high and terrible as the beast on the Great Bridge, or in the Cathedral. It was still wearing the remains of a once-proud cloak, so it must have been a member of the Church, or even a Hunter, before it had fallen. It killed us (it moved lightning-quick, far faster than anything that size has a right to) and I hurried back to its lair as fast as my legs could take me, for fear of it leaving its lair and coming to find us, instead. I needn't have worried, it was too large to fit through the narrow opening to its flooded hall... which did bring up the question of how it had come to be there, in the first place. Had the Hunter given in there, and transformed? Or, a more harrowing thought: had it been smaller, once, until the blood and hunger had forced it to grow, until it could no longer leave its room?  
  
I tried to focus on killing it, instead. I wasn't very successful, on either count.  
  
Eventually Sophia caught my arm, and begged for a rest from the Hunt. She made a sound argument: she needed a weapon capable of killing beasts, and I needed some time to consult with Gehrman. I called to the Little Ones, and waited for them to answer, and when they clustered around me I posed them another of those tricky questions:  
  
"Can you take us from here?"  
  
Sophia stepped closer as the Little Ones started to gibber and moan amongst themselves. "I've seen those before..." She murmured. "What are they?"  
  
"The Doll calls them 'Little Ones.' I don't know if they have a name other than that."  
  
"Doll? What?"  
  
"They're... servants, I guess? Of the Hunters. I'm not quite sure. I get the impression they're older than the Hunt, sometimes..." I trailed off, then adjusted my glasses a little to peer more intently at the creatures' antics. "They don't talk, so it's always like playing Charades with them." The Little Ones had split themselves into two groups, roughly, with one group making climbing or swimming motions up towards the ceiling, while the other made burrowing motions towards the floor-- all of those gestures look rather alike, now that I think of it. They kept up the act, all while making questioning sounds at me, until I finally cottoned on to what they were trying to convey.  
  
"Ah-- I think they want to know if we should go up, or down." I guessed, and the Little Ones made pleased sounds, and stopped their scrambling. Maybe they couldn't take us directly to the Hunter's Dream from here, and that brought up thoughts of the nightmare comparison Sophia had made earlier. I thought back to the cloudy mist surrounding the Hunter's Dream, and the tall tops of trees or pillars the little Workshop was seemingly perched above, and pointed one finger upwards.  
  
The Little Ones flowed through the floor and grabbed my feet, then sank down into nothing. The transition was...rough, I suppose is a word. A long, breathless passage, through the void and tiny lights, until I opened my eyes to find myself in a shallow cave. That bleached-bone dustiness was here, but the stones were of a greyer cast, when they weren't cracked in two like grisly eggs, strands of sun-dried gore still caught between the crags. I exited the cave and sighed. Maybe I should have chosen down, instead. I climbed a nearby crumbling hill, thinking that I should at least get the lay of the land-- if this was a place that I could get to, there were certain to be beasts, somewhere, and I'd rather see them before they saw me.   
  
I patted down my coat until I found the small... telescope? There was a word for it, had to be. Like a low-tech binocular. Whatever it's called, I'd found it on a body while exploring the Cathedral Ward, and pocketed it for just such an occasion. I extended the device and looked through the lens-- this place was mountainous, with a steep cliff and a winding lower reach that might have housed a river. In the distance, off the edge of the world, a sea of fog almost managed to obscure the masts of ships, somewhere below. A sharp cliff, not far from the ocean... I wondered if this was the nightmare face of the Forbidden Woods, as the place I'd just left was of Yharnam. That meant there might be a Byrgenwerth shadow nearby, and I peered through the lens, hoping to catch a glimpse of a structure.  
  
I soon stopped, and paused to check the lens for obscuring dust or fluids. Then I looked again, and it was still there.  
  
"Sophia, I..." I started, triple-checked the lens, then gave up trying to make sense of it. "I can see my house from here."  
  
When she didn't answer, I looked around, only to realize that the Little Ones hadn't brought her with me. It always surprises me, how quickly we can get used to something. Well, the disused chapel we'd been in was safe enough-- she'd be fine for a while by herself. My house looked like a good ways off the ground, and I wasn't exactly eager to try climbing the crumbling cliffs any higher than even this shallow hill, so I tugged on <Communion> and <Guidance>, and smiled when the Little Ones showed up immediately. I don't miss the first days of my time in Yharnam, having to travel on foot until I found Little Ones already present.  
  
I squatted down next to them and pointed at the familiar roof in the distance, saying, "That's my house. I usually wake up in my room-- you know it, right? Can you take me there?"  
  
  
  
I opened my eyes to a familiar ceiling, and the feeling of a mattress beneath me. I indulged myself in a stretch before turning over and getting my boots back on the ground. My room looked more or less as I'd left it-- the papers taped to the wall above my desk were devoid of my scribblings and my Armsmaster poster was gone, but other than that, it was familiar enough to make me homesick. A thought occurred to me, before I reached my bedroom door-- I'd found a fair few excess weapons, during my explorations, and Sophia was in need of something to fight with. Had I left any in my closet? Would they even be here if I had? It couldn't hurt to check, so I turned back and walked over the carpet towards the wooden double-doors.  
  
I paused, my hand on the knob. There was... something-- a sensation I couldn't describe, like a palsy in my brain. It plinked, and plucked, off-key notes that didn't bother with my ears on their way to my brain. I listened, and with my attention on it, it grew louder, clearer. It smoothed into a tuneless hum, and it was coming from...  
  
I leaned forward, a bare inch, and peeked down through the upward slats of my closet door. I could just see it, in the shadow: a pair of porcelain hands, folded demurely in a pose I'd grown familiar with, against a barely-seen backdrop of a red dress. I made a confused sound, and tugged open the door.  
  
"Doll? Why are you here?" The question died in my throat. My thoughts died with it. The Doll was in my closet, alright. The Nightmare of her.  
  
Her dress was red, of course, the color of blood, and the fluid that caked the careful stitches of her hand-woven garment had dried bright and lustrous. Her delicate hands and her buckled shoes were smeared with it, as well, but it was the rest of her that drew attention, that _demanded_ attention. She didn't have a face, only eyes, set into a twitching and pulsating mass of brain tissue. It was huge, the cerebral folds all uneven, like it had grown cancerous and just _expanded_ , without regard for proportion, like a terrible realization of my fear for the beast in the blooded hall. _( Ludwig. His name is Ludwig. Don't forget it.)_  
  
The mass twitched, tiny hands kneading into it, flexing the atrophied muscles around the myriad eyes, and once I'd seen them I started to recognize shapes all over and through the horrid thing. The Little Ones-- her brain was a congealed hive of the Little Ones. The Doll opened her arms to me and took a step forward, offering a hug.  
  
The furnace in my hammer wasn't lit, but the weapon had a deadly weight to it, and I brought it down against the Doll's chest in a clumsy, panicked strike. It should have sent her slight frame flying, but instead she merely made a muffled 'oof!' noise, a human noise, like anyone who's been hit.   
  
Such a small thing, that sound. And yet it _broke_ me.   
  
I screamed, and brought the hammer back up, and down, as hard as I could, again and again, cracking her tiny frail hands into splinters. Her porcelain frame beneath the dress shattered, and oozed an off-color liquid onto the floor. I triggered the furnace in my hammer and pressed it against the pulsing brain, holding it there as the consumed Little Ones writhed and pushed aside the staring eyes to open gaping mouths beneath them. I held it there until the sickening smell of burned flesh filled my room, until the feminine moans and tiny cries ceased, and my terrified sobbing was the only sound.  
  
Stupid. How could I be so stupid? This wasn't my house. This wasn't my room, wasn't my Doll, how could I have forgotten that there were no safe places for me outside the Dream?  
  
I fell back against the edge of my bed, my legs suddenly boneless, and though I tried I couldn't stop crying. I just couldn't. I couldn't take it, take _this,_ this nightmare of blood and beasts that my life had become. I sat there, on the floor of what was not my room, near the shattered corpse of what was not the Doll, and bawled. I didn't stop when footsteps came up the stairs, or when I recognized the pair standing in my doorway. Miss Militia was there, one hand holding an enormous firearm, and with her flag-patterned bandanna covering her eyes like I'd seen Djura do. Velocity was behind her, with a containment foam grenade ready to throw, but when I didn't move save to wipe at my streaming eyes, he slowly lowered the canister.  
  
Miss Militia braved a few steps closer, then paused to let her gun flicker back to something more compact. She crouched down near me, at a safe distance, just like Mr. Ethan had the last I'd seen him. Slowly, like someone approaching a wounded animal, she extended her arm and pressed one hand to my shoulder. "Taylor Hebert," she breathed, "is that really you?"  
  
I couldn't stop crying.  
  
I couldn't stop anything.


	45. Chapter 45

**PRT (13)**  
...?  
  
  
Moving Bloodmoon to the unoccupied easy chair downstairs was... surprisingly easy. Mostly.  
  
When a terrified scream came from upstairs, Velocity surged up the staircase, sidestepping the near-gelatinous remains of the... thing that had been patrolling the halls, and slowed just enough to open the nearest door, foam grenade primed and ready in one hand and his knife in the other. He'd been expecting one of the vanished students, or maybe a teacher, not-- well, not Bloodmoon. Let alone, a Bloodmoon fighting another of the not-persons... though, maybe fighting was too strong a word. Velocity's hands had registered the cape's identity before his brain had quite caught up, and he felt his wrist give a convulsive jerk, attempting to throw the grenade and trap the psychotic cape before she could get up. But his fingers had tightened on the canister at the last second, and the throw remained an aborted twitch. He should have thrown it, he was supposed to have thrown it, but...  
  
Well, nobody had seen Bloodmoon since she'd, um, 'resisted arrest'. And at that point, she'd been talked down by Assault. There was no way to know what sort of reactions she'd have, if she'd be the screaming banshee ragecanon, or the implacable serial killer she'd started out as, or--  
  
Or, well, a damaged teen crying in the street. That had been a bit of a curve ball, but it shouldn't have stopped him from neutralizing her before she even knew he was there. She needed to be stopped, deserved to be stopped after all the people she'd killed.  
  
But... maybe she didn't deserve to be trapped with a monster.  
  
So he'd meant to deploy the containment foam as soon as the thing was dead, before Bloodmoon could turn that hammer on him or Militia, but then instead of turning around she'd just kind of... dropped everything. And by then the world had sped back up and Miss Militia was right on his heels. Velocity half-expected her to open fire, hopefully with a taser, but she'd stopped, too, and Bloodmoon didn't so much as twitch for her gun. Velocity sighed; why was it that even in the Protectorate, even in a clusterfuck like this, sometimes the hardest part of being a cop was a surrender?  
  
  
  
Once she'd calmed down a bit, Bloodmoon had been pliant, docile even, and had let Militia lead her downstairs. They'd been intending to lead her to the kitchen, keeping Militia and Velocity between her and the couch, but the hope of keeping Bloodmoon in the dark about their downed leader evaporated pretty much off the bat. She'd been sniffling, tugging off her gloves to wipe at reddened eyes and cheeks, when she stopped in the entryway of the hall, between the bottom of the stairwell and the rest of the house. Velocity saw Miss Militia falter a bit, when what had been a gentle push on Bloodmoon's back to guide her along suddenly became the equivalent of pushing on a brick wall. Bloodmoon sniffled again with more purpose. "I smell blood. Blood and desperation."  
  
"Come on, let's sit in the kitchen," Militia urged, but Bloodmoon shook her head, expression already firming away from the lost and confused lassitude she'd had.  
  
"No, I can smell it. Are you hurt? No, you look okay... and it's too fresh for that stain," she said, and started walking straight into the living room. Velocity took a step and let time crawl to a near-stop as he surged into the room ahead of the cape, foam canisters back out in each hand. He let the world speed back up, noting Miss Militia already re-configuring her power into a taser.  
  
"Nuh-uh, stop right there, Bloodmoon." She did, but he saw her eyes glance over the foam canisters and his fingers on the activation buttons, and promptly dismiss him in favor of peering over the back of the couch. Surprisingly, her face paled a bit.  
  
"Oh. Oh hell, is that Armsmaster? He doesn't look good."  
  
"Bloodmoon, back away and walk to the kitchen. This is your last warning." The cape tensed as Miss Militia thumbed the safety off of her taser. The warning was real, but Velocity knew the distinctive ' _click_ ' was just for show. Her power never needed safeties, but a lot of people will react more to the sound of a weapon being readied than they will to a spoken word.  
  
"But he needs help!" The cape said, and turned half-around to look at Miss Militia. "Look at how pale he is, he needs a transfusion or something! Maybe even a doctor!"  
  
"Isn't that kinda reversed--"  
  
"I've got blood, see? It'll help his wounds." Oh hell she was opening her coat. Velocity couldn't see what she was displaying, but he heard the _clink_ of glass on glass, and got a pretty good idea. They'd all seen the plastic tote of bottles the Biohazard Containment Unit retrieved from her house. "I can help him. I mean it."  
  
"Absolutely not. You're not turning him into a monster."  
  
"What? Of course not! He's not a beast."  
  
"Neither was Shadow Stalker," Velocity countered. "Until your blood got involved."  
  
That got a reaction, but not one Velocity was expecting. She turned back around, and stared at him. It was kind of unsettling how she was looking at and through him at the same time. "Is that what happened? ...I only gave her a single vial." She frowned, and started chewing on her lip. Miss Militia started to edge around her, trying to get between the couch and Bloodmoon, but the cape didn't seem to notice. She instead took out a vial from a small row of them inside her coat, and held it up to the light.  
  
"Just one vial shouldn't have hurt her-- I mean I warned her anyway, but..." The dark liquid in the bottle roiled inside its glass prison. Velocity tried not to stare at it. "...but maybe mine has gotten a bit potent."  
  
They fell into a tense silence, all three of them. Velocity's gaze drifted over to Armsmaster's limp form, lingered on the bruised and discolored edges of the stump where his arm should have been, on the ashen tone of their leader's skin. He looked two feet in the grave already, maybe more. And even if he survived the injury, there was this infection to worry about, this Shaker effect or _whatever_ the hell Bloodmoon's problem was, because that much time spent near her blood was apparently a possible death sentence.  
  
_Or worse than that_ , a darker corner of Velocity's thoughts decided to contribute. _Militia said Hookwolf did this to him, that Hookwolf was here after he died. What'll happen to Boss if he bleeds out on that couch?_  
  
"Y'know..." Velocity said, his tone low, "Armsmaster's already infected, isn't he? Would a little more make much difference?" Militia's head whipped up and she stared at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. Well, Velocity couldn't quite believe what was coming out of his mouth, either, so that made two of them.  
  
"Are you _insane_?"  
  
"No, just out of options. Stalker drank like a gallon of that stuff, this is just a shotglass. And I mean, yeah, it's not _ideal_ , but if she really thinks it might help, then what does he really have to lose?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know, his sanity? His _humanity_?"  
  
"And if we don't do something, his life."  
  
Bloodmoon slowly raised one hand, like a student asking permission to speak, and wasn't that just the black irony icing on today's tragedy cake? "I've got an idea. If you don't want to risk using _my_ blood, I've got someone else's that should work just fine."  
  
"Ugh." Miss Militia pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment. "I don't understand what blood has to do with any of this. Why we'd even consider this."  
  
"That's... how it works, here." Bloodmoon said, as she dug through pockets, looking for something. "Blood from Yharnam is... different than blood from people in the Bay. There's a whole medical practice and religion on ministration of blood. If we can get you out of here, I know some places to take him to for further treatment."  
  
"That's-- that implies there's _people_ here, what the hell are you--"  
  
"Militia!" Velocity snapped, "We can hear the story later-- since we can't go back through the school, I think we've got time. But Armsmaster _doesn't_. So what's it gonna be?" Velocity looked to Miss Militia, saw the agonized decision being tumbled through her thoughts. Bloodmoon was looking too, and Velocity distantly realized he'd lowered the foam grenades, again. Some things were more important.  
  
"...alright. Alright, just--" She inhaled, and even her breath was shaking. "Just... don't hurt him."  
  
Bloodmoon nodded, and carefully skirted past Velocity to crouch near Armsmaster's side. She fiddled with his helmet until it came off, and oddly enough, set the mask aside with something approaching reverence. Velocity felt Miss Militia move closer to him to watch, though she didn't object to the unmasking. Well, it's not like her mask was on anymore, and anyway, Velocity somewhat doubted that Bloodmoon had any respect for the sort of Gentleman's Code that parahumans tended to uphold. Then again... he also kinda doubted she had anyone to tell.  
  
Bloodmoon finally found what she was looking for, and the cape withdrew a blood vial from the depths of her greatcoat. It was different from the others, a longer slimmer sort of vial, and tied with a ribbon. The liquid inside looked much closer to normal blood, maybe even a bit lighter. Bloodmoon gently pried open Armsmaster's mouth, and tipped the vial past his lips.   
  
"It's okay," she said. "You'll see. Enough blood, and he'll be good as new."  
  
She was careful not to spill a single drop, and even watching Velocity never saw her need to press on Armsmaster's throat to make him swallow.


	46. Chapter 46

 

 

**Taylor (19)**

...?

 

 

Miss Militia was always Dad's favorite of the local heroes. I'd always favored Armsmaster, personally, and there were probably still buckets of Tinker-themed construction blocks in the basement somewhere. The patriotic heroine was growing on me, though. She'd been quite insistent on accompanying me to find whatever horror ruled this barren landscape, once I'd interrogated the Little Ones and declared my intentions to find and kill the 'lock' that was holding this place together. There were probably better words for it, but such was the impression I got from the Little Ones: they'd have more freedom of movement once I got rid of something, so the task now topped my To-Do list, followed by 'Get Armsmaster more blood' and 'Put the heroes and Sophia back in the Bay.' They didn't belong here, and the thought of freeing them from Yharnam was a hopeful ember in my chest, something I could do that I _knew_ was right. Of course, then they'd all probably immediately go back to trying to arrest me, but it was a nice fantasy while it lasted.

 

Speaking of Sophia, I'd finally remembered to ring my bell again once things had calmed down and Miss Militia stopped pointing her gun at me (though Velocity kept his grenades handy, I saw). When I pulled Sophia into Not My Living Room, she erupted into hysterics, punching my shoulder and yelling about leaving her behind. I tried to tell her I'd simply forgotten, but that just pissed her off more. Sophia continued to grate on my rapidly dwindling patience until Velocity found his voice, and interrupted.

 

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Oh holy fucking shit, _Shadow Stalker_?"

 

Sophia let go of my coat's lapels, startled, and turned to face the two heroes staring at her. "What? What the hell are you doing here?" A good question, now that she brought it up. Why had the heroes come here? I mean, I was willing to bet that ending up in my house had been an accident, but this place was closer to Yharnam than the Bay. I missed whatever Miss Militia said in response, because my heart gave a sudden painful lurch up into my throat, until I swallowed it back down. _No_ , I told myself, _they did not come here to rescue me._

 

It was a silly thought, anyway.

 

"What do you mean, you _found my body_?" Sophia hissed, "I'm not-- I'm not _dead_ , you morons, I'm right here!"

 

"No, you're dead," I corrected.

 

"Shut your damn mouth, Hebert!"

 

I frowned. My hand drifted to the large bell at my waist, and Sophia backpedaled.

 

"W-wait! Stop, I'm-- I'm sorry, okay? No need for the damn bell, just-- calm down."

 

"Fine, just don't push your luck," I declared. "I'm going to see about getting us out of here. You have your little reunion." I'm not bitter. I'm not. I'm just... disappointed. The room was full of a tense silence when I returned from consulting the Little Ones. Velocity and Sophia were going to stay here, and keep an eye on Armsmaster, while Miss Militia would come and keep an eye on me. I was fine with that. Miss Militia doesn't run out of ammo, after all.

 

We traversed the rocky wastes with surprising speed. They were inhabited by lanky, silver-pelted beasts with twisted necks and too-wide mouths, and though the first one startled us with the suddenness of its lunge, they weren't much of a challenge between us. I disliked them, all the same. There was something unsettling about them, sitting near their tiny bonfires and carrying torches as they wandered. Beasts were supposed to fear flame; it was quite unnatural. I think Miss Militia must have agreed with me, because she carried a disturbed expression on her face.

 

When she wasn't making my life easier with a double-barreled shotgun, Miss Militia plied me with questions. She asked about the blood ministration I'd brought up, so I explained what I knew about the church, which led her to ask about Alfred, and Yharnam, and to wonder about how I'd ended up here and what did I tend to do when I was in the Bay, and all sorts of things. I was quite flattered that the heroine would take so much interest in me, and soon I was smiling and chattering quite happily at her. Eventually, I repeated my silly thought from earlier, and her expression grew pained.

 

"It's okay," I said.

 

"Nothing is okay," she countered. I didn't disagree.

 

When we descended the steep path down the cliffside, we reached another bog in the lowlands, only instead of blood this one stank of acid and-- I sniffed. Salt?

 

The salt-smell, I determined, was coming from the pale, writhing things that made the bog their home. Looking at them made my stomach ache. They were unfamiliar, I think, and they didn't seem like beasts so much as some strange animal. They were slick, boneless things, like manta rays. Or slugs. They were grouped in clusters all around the swamp, which at least made it easier for me to take my hammer to them when I quickly decided to exterminate the entire population. They weren't even dangerous, not so long as you didn't stand in front of them, but I was not continuing until they were dead. Miss Militia stayed on the dry rocks and fallen tombstones, away from the acid, and assisted by sniping first the larger beasts that conspired to throw rocks at us, and then the rays I was wiping out. Well, she assisted with the ones nearest the path, anyway. Once it became clear that I'd assigned myself a mission, she grew hesitant to continue. Unfortunate, but I was up for the task.

 

I stayed out of the caves I found, dotting the side of the cliff and leading into the darkness. I approached, but they made my head shudder terribly, and I took the warning for what it was.

 

When I was satisfied with my slaughter of the briny things, I climbed back onto the makeshift path and continued on. We could see a structure very close, now, a great looming sun-baked thing, though it didn't resemble Byrgenwerth as I'd thought. Maybe one of the other buildings, beyond the lake? Perhaps I could take a closer look, when next I went to the old college. We had to pass beneath a stone arch to get closer, and as we did the hair on the back of my neck prickled in alarm. I saw Miss Militia slow to a stop, beside me, her power flickering and unfolding itself into a rifle.

 

Up above, wrapped around the tower of the dusty building was a hand. Dark, leathery, and with scraggly hairs big enough to see even from the ground. We watched the fingers flex, then move as the hand drifted to get a better grip on a crumbling fortification. It was joined by a second hand, and on the opposite side of the building, yet another. Amygdala wrapped itself around the building, then twined and crawled its way down into the wide open space between us and the tower's base. That bulbous head, those emaciated arms... I felt a chill in my spine. It held more than a passing resemblance to the many statues inside the Cathedral. It had no visible mouth or eyes, but it was watching us. No mere beast, this being-- it knew we were here, and it knew _why_. I raised my hammer, triggered the mechanism, and marched forward, waiting for Amygdala's opening move.

 

Instead of a long sweep of its arms, as I'd anticipated, it leaped. I called a warning to Miss Militia just as it came down on the stone archway, just above and behind us. The stone cracked like clay and collapsed as we scattered. I glanced back to watch the creature refuse to follow us, instead using its massive hands to pry more boulders from the rocky walls. The chill spread from my spine and raced along my skin.

 

Amygdala had known we were coming, and it had now blocked any means of escaping it.

 

 

[MEDIA=youtube]SIB4kae-mP4[/MEDIA]

 

 

Its trap sprung, Amydgala hurled itself off the ruined wall, sending tremors through the ground of the arena it had made when it landed. A gunshot sounded from the far side, then another, and I saw two small bursts of a thin, pale ichor seep from the being's hide. Amygdala didn't seem to notice, or care. It raised a hand up and watched me with the eye in its palm. The pupil dilated, and a cold white force lanced from the darkness behind its gaze. I refused to stay under its gaze long-- I dashed forward as fast as I could, and brought my hammer down on the nearest leg I could reach. Fire melted the grotesque hairs, and I chanced another swing, this time at one of the arms Amygdala was using to brace itself against the earth. It took an almost playful swipe at me, in response.

 

I circled out of the way, and heard the gunfire change to a slower, louder rapport. I changed a glance and watched Miss Militia bracing a long, familiar sort of firearm. She fired, and the shot pierced through the emaciated stomach of the being. Pale blood rained down on me, and Amygdala rewarded Miss Militia with a volley of its lasers. I heard her curse as she dived behind a rock. I triggered my hammer again, swung it high against the arm I'd singled out, and felt my face pulling into a rictus of frustration. Maybe I could hit the multi-jointed segment, stagger my opponent, and--

 

There was a sound, a deep undulating thing, that wormed past my ears and slithered through the folds of my cerebellum. It carried on its rhythm, then repeated, until I finally placed it. Amygdala was ~~_laughing_~~.

 

I stopped and stared at it, ( _looked at it_ ), until I could see the echoing corona around him/her/it/them. They laughed again, louder. Why wouldn't they? Amygdala feared neither death nor pain, any more than I did. I would return to the Hunter's Dream if killed, to the moonlight and heather. I inhaled through my nose, smelled the dust and misery of this place, and also... I breathed, again. Earthworms, and decay, and all things profane and foul. A _deep_ smell. I recognized it.

 

"I see you!" I screamed, a black fury uncoiling in my gut. "I see you, I know what you are! I'll find you! I'll find your dream, and I'll KILL IT!"

 

Eyes peeked out from the webbed cage of its head, swiveled and stared at me. There was no more laughter, but instead a crawling pain twisting my ocular nerves. ~~_IM-PER-TIN-ENCE._~~ They raised its palm again, but the promised death never came. Miss Militia had lined up her shot.

 

The piercing rifle fired, and I saw a black streak enter one side of Amygdala's head and explode out the opposite, sending a spray of pale blood and orange fluids splattering all across the sun-baked tower. Amygdala staggered, their tremendous bulk crashing to the ground in a pile of flailing limbs. I flickered forward, every ounce of hate I had seeping from my fingernails, and I plunged my arm into Amygdala's brain and _raked_. The air shivered with the force of their scream of pain and fury. Before I could pull away Amygdala snatched me with a hand and tore me away from them. When it released I went flying, bounced off the ground from the force and rolled to a stop against one of the fallen boulders near the ruined arch. I scrambled for my vials, feeling every inch of the cracks and bruises along my bones. I tipped three into my mouth, and swallowed to the sound of Miss Militia screaming.

 

Amygdala had plucked her from behind her rock with two fingers, but when the heroine fired again and blew a second pair of holes in Amygdala's head they shifted its grip until their palm was wrapped around her. Amygdala paused, even tilted its head towards me like a human would, as though to check if I was watching. And then it _squeezed_.

 

From across the arena I heard Miss Militia's scream cut off into a wet crack, saw red fountain from her mouth from the pressure. Her rifle flickered into green, and vanished. Amygdala opened their dripping palm and let Miss Militia drop. She made a faint, wet plop when she hit the ground.

 

I saw _red_. And then, I saw nothing at all.


	47. Chapter 47

 

 

 **PRT (14)**

...?

He was drifting.

There was a vague awareness of his body, and a sense that he was lying down, and that was... nice. There wasn't any pain, or fatigue, just this cool grey nothing. _Would it be selfish_ , Colin wondered, _if I wanted to stay here forever?_

There were sounds, occasionally. Voices, mainly, though it was hard to place their owners-- and hard to care when he couldn't. Fingers fumbled at his clavicle, a light questing pressure as a man's voice (oh, that was Robin, he knew that one) spoke very close by, saying, "We need bandages, and something to disinfect this-- a high-proof alcohol would work, if you've got any. Damn it, where is the catch on this thing?"

"Ah, well, not wif me, specifically, oh but you could check the cellar, just there!" A... person's voice, high and reedy, couldn't tell if it was male or female. Eager-sounding. A bit phlegmy. The probing fingers found the emergency release on Colin's armor, and a weight was carefully pulled off of his chest. There was a sloshing sound, and-- _PAIN!_

"Sorry boss, this'll probably sting... man, what's even in this stuff, smells like copper. Are you sure this is alcohol?"

"Oh, absolutely!" High and Reedy again. "Chapels always got somefink with a kick in it. The blood'll help your friend's injuries, too. What'd you say was wrong wif him?"

"Blood? Are you serio-- yes, of course you are. Damn it, I hate this place."

The white-hot sear at his shoulder faded. Colin drifted, deeper.

. . .

 

Fingers were running through his hair, parting sweat-soaked locks on manicured nails. A woman; he could smell the perfume on her skin.

Nearby, a girl's voice: "Here's what I could find. They were left in the front hall so I grabbed a few, in case of damaged bits. You can use these, right?" ...she sounded familiar.

"Those can't be sanitary, it looks like you pulled them out of a dump!" Oh, hello again Robin. When did you get here?

"It will work fine, darling." The woman's fingers left. Her voice was warm, and stirred a flicker of anxiety in Colin's chest. If he'd known Dragon was going to visit, he would have liked to clean up his lab, or something. "Just set the stand here, I think I know the rest."

"Alright, I'll leave you to it. I... need to go check something. I'll be back. Mr. Velocity, _don't leave_ , I mean it." Footsteps, receding. There was a sudden sharp poke at the soft skin in the crook of his elbow. A light warmth began to spread from it.

It felt nice.

. . .

Colin opened his eyes, though it took him a minute to realize he'd done so. He was lying down still, but it didn't feel very good anymore. There was a warmth at his elbow, and _that_ wasn't good, either. It was hot now, the sweat on his skin wasn't cooling him, and every few beats of his heart there was a quiet _plip_ and the simmering fire at his arm smouldered brighter. _Plip. Plip._

He rolled his eyes, squinted. Above him, there was a clear jar, maybe a fifth-full of a pale yellow fluid. Above that, a dark shadow of a shape. It dripped into the jar, and Colin watched the red inkbloom swirl through the fluid, before it settled at the bottom. He followed with his eyes the tubing at the base of the jar, until it met his left arm. _Plip. Plip. Plip._ The heat spread, snaking itself into a coil of _want_ that flexed and twitched in his chest, his abdomen.

Colin licked his lips. They felt dry.

Colin licked his tongue over his teeth. They felt unfamiliar.

Colin closed his eyes. Sleep.

. . .

There was someone standing very close. Less than a foot. He could sense it.

"Miss Hunter? What's that man wearing? Is he a soldier?" A young voice. Female. Not one of his Wards.

"Come away, my dear. Don't disturb him, he's resting." Older woman. Couldn't place the accent.

"He is wearing armor, though. Some of it." Another girl?

"Uh... something like that, miss." Robin, also close. He probably hadn't left, which was odd. Shouldn't he have been working? There had to be some better use of his time than to watch Colin.

"Oh! So you are! Then sir, have you seen our mum?" The little girl piped up again. Colin heard the older woman shuffle and mutter, somewhere beyond. "She wears a luvverly red b- brooch, it's very beu- beautiful, you wouldn't miss it."

"Uh, well, I haven't really been outside much..."

"She went looking for dad, but she hasn't come back. And she forgot daddy's music box!"

"Please, my dear. Don't bother them."

There was the sound of winding gears, and then a plinking tune. Not bad. "See? It's daddy's favorite song. An' when he forgets us, we play it for him, so he remembers."

Colin tuned out the conversation. The lullaby helped him drift again.

. . .

Colin slowly blinked himself awake, and this time, clarity decided to stick around. He caged the yawn that trembled around his jaw, and sat up. Then he sat up more carefully, when a wave of lightheadedness threatened to topple him. His veins still smouldered, it made his bodysuit and armor oppressive. He rubbed crust from his eyes (why wasn't his right hand-- oh. Ohh.) and passed a critical eye over the bandages concealing his stump. A bit sloppy, but they weren't dotted with his life, so it was good enough. Especially given that this did not seem to be anywhere near a PRT clinic; looking around, Colin spied a few broken pews, high stone walls, and an ornate chandelier serving as a censer. Colin hadn't been to Mass in years, but this didn't look like any church he knew.

The chapel looked fairly abandoned, but there were a few people about. A small huddle off in one corner, a young blonde woman that seemed to be asleep in a padded chair, a bundle of soiled red cloth that looked to be hiding a sleeping person (the bundle moved just slightly, it looked to be about the right movements for breathing), and over to his left-- oh.

Robin was pressed against the nearby wall, curled into himself with his face hidden behind his knees. His mask hung loosely from his fingers, and Colin eyed the scrap of nylon for a long moment, trying to figure out why it was moving, just slightly. Ah, of course-- because Robin's fingers were trembling. So was the rest of him. Note to self, never put off sleep again, it was wrecking Colin's faculties.

"Velocity," he croaked. Then he tried again, clearing his throat. "Velocity."

Robin's head jerked up. "Wh-- hey! Boss, you're awake." He scrubbed a wrist over his face, gamely pretending that his eyes weren't red-rimmed. "How're you feeling?"

Thirsty. "Like someone hit me with a truck. Where is this?"

"Locals call it the 'Cathedral Ward,' in the city of Yharnam." Colin's eyebrows reached his hairline. Robin saw and gave a mirthless bark of a laugh. "Yeah, uh... that Shaker effect you were worried about? A _bit_ more complex than we thought."

"We're still in the distortion." It wasn't a question. Begone, headache, there was work to be done. "I'd compared her to Labryinth, but-- she was warping places, but everything looked fine going in. We weren't in the school at all, we were _somewhere else_."

"We should have called her 'Alice.' She's got one hell of a Wonderland up her sleeves." Robin sniffled, then said, "It's worse, Armsmaster. It's so much worse."

"What happened?"

"She's got 'Stalker. Bloodmoon does. Shadow Stalker is here. She... she just pulled her out of the air like a ghost, and she was still herself, still speaking an' even slapping Bloodmoon around a bit." He trailed off.

Colin carefully put his hand against his face. Deep breaths. He wished that he hadn't been right on his theory, that Bloodmoon was alive. Or whatever that meant for her. "You're saying she's the next Glaistig Uaine?"

"I don't want to think so."

There had to be a different explanation. "Start over-- tell me how you even got here. And," he glanced around. "Where's Militia? Scouting?"

Robin flinched like he'd been shot. The embers didn't touch the chill that seeped into his gut. "...Velocity?"

"She-- she went with Bloodmoon, to go kill whatever was keeping us near the school. Said she wanted to make sure Bloodmoon didn't vanish, maybe interrogate her on the way... it was so weird, sitting there with her, like she was happy to see us." Velocity swallowed, then shook his head. "Only Bloodmoon came back. Covered in blood. Said Miss Militia was killed by the Amygdala."

"You think she killed her?"

"Yes. No. I-- I don't know what to think."

"Start over," Colin repeated. "Tell me everything." He did.

He told Colin about the monster on Winslow, (Miss Militia was dead) and how he'd run in to find an empty (Hannah) school and the inhuman assailants. He talked about Taylor Hebert's (Hannah was dead she was gone) house, and the creatures inside. (she shouldn't have died) He talked about Bloodmoon, and Shadow Stalker, and what she'd relayed to him over the (she wouldn't have been here if he hadn't made her come with him) course of their vigil over Armsmaster. He talked about blood, (this was on him) and why he'd insisted despite Militia's worries, and about Arianna the donor. He talked about Bloodmoon taking Stalker again as (she wouldn't have died if he'd been better) they came and left from the Cathedral. He nearly laughed as he spoke about the hellish light coming from outside, and how appropriate it was.

At the end Robin wiped at his face again, and jerked his chin towards the IV stand, looming and not forgotten in the corner. "I'm sorry, Boss. I didn't know what else to do."

"It's okay, Velocity," he lied. "These are extreme and unusual circumstances. Right now we need to stay calm and focus. Can you find any tools around here? I'll see if there's anything I can do for the tracking and radio transmitter in my armor, while we wait for Bloodmoon to come back. We'll question her further, then." (it's not okay)

"Right-- right. I'm on it." Velocity took a breath, then stood up, and soon vanished in a blur of motion. Armsmaster took a measured breath, counted on the exhale (she was dead she was dead what had he done), and went in search of his severed arm. (this is not okay nothing is okay)

(i'm not okay)


	48. Chapter 48

**Sophia (8)**

...?

Waiting for Hebert to get back from wherever she'd gone sucked. Not as badly as it could have, of course-- she could have left Sophia in the mire again-- but sitting on the ratty easy chair and watching Velocity fidget wasn't exactly engrossing. The speedster kept moving around the living room, checking Armsmaster's pulse and the hallway and the kitchen and then doing it all over again, like he just had no idea what to do with himself. And he did it all with looking at her as little as possible. It was seriously getting on Sophia's nerves.

  


"What's your problem, anyway?"

Jeeze, he even flinched, what a high-strung asshole. He did turn to look at her, though, so there was some improvement. He licked his lips and asked, "So... are you really-- y'know. Here?"

  


"What's it look like?"

  


"I meant up here," he tapped at his temple with a finger. Sophia scowled. "You're not just a Mastered puppet, I mean. Or you're doing a good job of faking it. Do you remember how you got here?"

"If you mean this dump, Hebert pulled me out of the floor. Pretty sure you were there." She sighed. "If you mean here at all, then... kinda. Yeah. It gets a bit fuzzy at the end, but..." She paused. "That wasn't a joke, either."

"Wasn't gonna laugh." They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Velocity asked a few questions, but conversations fizzled out after Sophia answered them. And as time went on, Sophia curled a bit more into herself in the chair. She didn't really want to think on it, but... she remembered things. Fuzzy details, like she'd said: the feeling of her jaw stretching out, for instance, and those happy little bastards Hebert kept talking to, there in Armsmaster's lab. She glanced up, watched Velocity putter about for a bit, back and forth.

"...hey, Velocity?"

  


"Mm?"

"When you said-- when you said you found my body, uh... what'd you mean?"

  


He stopped his pacing and eyed Sophia, his face grave. "A creature attacked the Wards. They said you'd turned into it, and-- well, we kinda... had to kill it. And then the lab techs ran a DNA analysis on the remains, and..." He shrugged, a helpless gesture. "The beast was you, according to its flesh."

  


"Shit." A beast, huh. Like Hebert was always going on about. Sophia shuddered. That thing in the caves was a beast, the madmen were beasts, Sophia had been-- what wasn't a beast? What did that even mean? Thinking back... Sophia straightened in her chair a bit. Thinking back, she remembered something. Hebert had called her a beast, back in school-- a few times, even. Her and Emma. So, what, was a beast just anything Hebert didn't like? There had to be more to it than that.

Sophia's thoughts were interrupted by Hebert's arrival, the girl clambering up the rope of the grappling hook she'd earlier hung out the window, as a means to reach the blighted landscape below. Hebert climbed up the rope, and hauled herself into the living room, leaving red handprints on everything she touched. No one climbed in after her. Velocity's eyes moved from the open, empty window, to the red stains covering Hebert's arms up to the elbow. He took a few slow, measured steps, and stopped when he was between the hunter and the unconscious Armsmaster.

"Bloodmoon. Where's Miss Militia?"

  


Hebert looked up, stared at Velocity for a couple of seconds, then looked away. "Dead. Amygdala killed her."

Velocity twitched, and Sophia saw tension build in the muscles near his neck and shoulders. "Don't lie to me. Don't you dare. What happened to her?"

  


"I just said, Amygdala killed her. I'm sorry, but it happened." Hebert exhaled sharply through her nose, and looked away, looking at anything but Velocity. She settled on an outcropping of those small, pale things, phasing out of an empty photo frame on a nearby wall. They were holding out a familiar hat and leather bandana; Hebert took them, and fumbled them back on. She was still messing with her hair when a slight motion drew Sophia's attention back to Velocity: he moved his hand, very slowly, until his fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife slid into his belt, at his back. Sophia risked a glance at Hebert. The girl was still turned away, and hadn't seen.

  


Cold fingers traced down over Sophia's ribs. The speedster was useless at fighting, his own power working against him more often than for him-- but how much of that mattered, if he had a blade to even the odds? If he could be at your neck from a block away before you ever knew he was there? Shit. Sophia had a half-formed thought, a worry at suddenly recognizing a snake she hadn't even known existed. The moment slowed down, stretched to the breaking point, as Sophia watched a man turn his thoughts to murder.

Hebert heard it. The brush of a finger, or a mind, against the edge. Either was likely enough to be frightening.

  


"...and what, exactly, do you think you will accomplish with that, Mr. Velocity?" She said, barely louder than a murmur. Velocity's fingers gripped tighter. Hebert turned by half a step, and tilted her head to stare at the speedster. With the mask covering half her face again, she was inscrutable, her gaze just a hand’s breadth removed from malice. "Five minutes. That's what you would earn."

  


"What do you mean?" He hadn't let go yet, of anything.

  


"Exactly what I said: Five. Minutes." She hissed. "That's how long I would be gone for, how long it would take me to wake up again and come back here. You can't kill me, Mr. Velocity-- I am only ever sleeping." Velocity took a small, sharp inhalation. "Are you starting to see? Understand? You can't touch me. No one can. Not the beasts, not Sophia, and not the PRT. I've died everyday, from the very first moment I came here, and it's become nothing more an an inconvenience."

  


Hebert finished her turn, and took one large step towards the hero. Velocity's arm whipped out, fast, but not inhumanly so-- the knife caught in Hebert's coat, a bare inch from her throat. She put her hand over his wrist and squeezed.

"I won't even hold it against you," she whispered, and Velocity's grip started to tremble. "But decide quick. We don't have a lot of time to waste."

Velocity's fingers twitched once, twice. A light tug at Hebert's wrist and she released him, and the hero slid the weapon back into its sheath. The soft click it made settling home wasn't nearly final enough. Velocity stepped back from Hebert, then finally turned his back to her, and worked at slinging the heavy tinker over his shoulders instead. Hebert made a move to help, but a quick step away from her had her lower her hand again. Velocity huffed and finally slung Armsmaster into a fireman's carry, and turned angry, expectant eyes on Hebert.

Sophia uncoiled herself from the easy chair, and did the same.

  


“Alright,” Hebert said. “Time to go.”

A cluster of those pale bastards sprung up around Sophia’s feet, their bony fingers clutching at her pants and cape. She made a surprised sound and tried to jerk away; nearby, she heard Velocity do much the same, with about as much success. The Little Ones pulled them all down into the dark.

Sophia opened her eyes to the mire, the red fields stretching all around. She bit on the curse and started ringing her bell. It was a long wait. When she sank again, and gripped onto Hebert’s hand to pull her up. Things were… different.

It was bright here, a gentle sort of misty light, and the air was full of the smell of moonlight. Sophia saw flowers, and overgrown stones all around. Hebert set her on the path, then turned and marched quickly down it, towards what looked like a cottage. A pale woman near the steps looked up as she approached, and greeted her.

  


“Welcome home, Good Hunter. Ah?” The girl turned her head towards Sophia, who gritted her teeth against the inspection. The girl’s face was far too calm, too smooth and featureless to be real. “What’s this? Good Hunter, have you brought a… guest?”

  


“Something like that.” Hebert gestured to each of them in turn, and Sophia moved closer. “Doll, this is Sophia Hess. Sophia, this is the Doll. Be nice to her. I’m going to go find you a new weapon-- stay put.”

  


“Yeah, just order me around, sure.” If Hebert even registered the sarcasm, she didn’t show it. She just marched up to the cottage and pushed open the door, vanishing inside. Sophia watched her leave, then looked closer at ‘the Doll.’ The Doll was watching her back, head tilted just a few degrees to show curiosity.

  


“Hello. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after-- well. I am here to look after the Good Hunter. Forgive me, I do not recall ever meeting a Hunter who was not bound here.” She made a small gesture with her hands. Sophia eyed the clever joints and half-seen gears. Tinkertech? Hebert didn’t seem like the type for it.

  


“What’s that mean, ‘bound to?’” She asked instead. The Doll straightened a bit, and explained. Sophia listened, and wondered. Was this how Hebert was cheating death? It… didn’t sound like any parahuman power she’d ever heard about. A thought formed, and skittered away; Sophia let it. It hadn’t been one she wanted to examine closely.

  


Hebert came back soon enough, her steps with considerably more clank to them owing to the rusted hunk of death she had cradled in her arms. “Here, Sophia. Gehrman calls this a ‘Rifle Spear.’ Pay attention, I’m only showing you how to use it once.”

Hebert made good on that, completely ignoring Sophia’s question (‘Who’s Gehrman?’) and instead giving a quick how-to on unfolding and shooting the thing. This wasn’t any tinkertech she’d heard of, either, though it was busted enough to look like something Squealer might come up with on a bad trip. Sophia probably had tetanus just from looking at it.

  


“Got it? Good.” Hebert grunted. “Gehrman’s sleeping, so we’ll have to come back later. I guess we can go check on the heroes while I figure out what to do next.” The girl might have been frowning, beneath that mask. Weird how it was almost easier to read her when her face was covered-- a mask was known, predictable. Hebert, Sophia was finding, was not.

Case in point, Hebert handed over a small pouch full of loose bullets, then picked her way through the flowers to a gravestone, and knelt before it. Sophia faded away before she could ask what the other girl was doing, and then she was back in the mire, left to ring her bell and wait for Hebert’s convenience.

  


This time, at least, the bell’s resonance pulled Sophia away much sooner. She was pulled up out of a grey stone floor, and for a horrible moment Sophia was sure that they’d returned to the disused chapel outside the mire, with Hebert ready to throw herself against that thing in the cave again. It was only a moment, thankfully. This chapel had a familiar shape to it, but was actually inhabited and still decorated.

Hebert walked away from Sophia without another word, moving to a rug-strewn area nearby that hosted a pretty blonde woman, Armsmaster laying on the ground with a tube in his arm, and a massively creepy person-thing huddled under stained sheets nearby. They were all stretched-out and gross looking, with thin, greasy hair and milky eyes. Hebert was greeting it and the woman with a cheerful voice. Ugh. Sophia looked around until she spotted Velocity’s bright costume across the cathedral, near an open archway, and she paced over to stand near him.

The speedster was looking outside, the strain and worry easy to see on his face even with the mask. Just past the stone arch was a raised plaza, and beyond that, a massive sprawl of close-set buildings and reaching towers. There were lights visible, in some of the shuttered windows, and thin wisps emerged from chimneys here and there. The air was filled with the stench of copper-soaked fur and acrid smoke, and low, distant moans that might have been the wind.

  


“She was a Brute,” Velocity said, his voice very quiet in the face of Yharnam. “And then she was a Mover. A Bio-Tinker. A Shaker.”

It wasn’t hard to guess who he was talking about. Sophia looked out over the squalid city, and felt that uncomfortable thought try to skitter back into the light. “And now?”

“I have no goddamned idea.”

  
Yeah. That seemed about right.


	49. Chapter 49

**Taylor (20)**

 

 

My head ached terribly. I couldn’t explain it, and I was filled with a bizarre certainty that it was the lack of explanation that was causing the pain. I was thinking of things, and places, and people, but I couldn’t pin the thoughts down with words before they fled. If only I could hunt them down as easily as I could a beast, then I would know… something.

It was there, this something. It was there but I couldn’t express it, even to myself. How frustrating. 

I turned my thoughts as best I could to more concrete things, and away from the things it was too late to change. I’d accomplished one goal: Armsmaster was stable, according to Arianna, and though Velocity watched me like a hawk whenever I drew near I considered his enmity worth it. Sophia was armed again, with one of the weapons I’d picked up along the way, so hopefully she would prove herself useful now. She was going to need practice, however, and I paced around the Cathedral Ward as I mused on my next step.

“Sophia!” I called. She turned my way, and I ignored her surly expression. “We’re leaving.”

“Great. Good. Where are we going?”

“Byrgenwerth.” At her blank stare I elaborated. “It’s a college, out in the Forbidden Woods. There’s something in the lake I need to kill-- we’ll take the long way there so you can practice a bit.”

I turned and started marching before she could voice a question, and my rapid pace forestalled any further attempts until we’d reached the city limits and the unbarred door. Yharnam felt even less welcoming than usual, today. I kept glancing over my shoulder, feeling watched.

We started down the rocky path on the cliff, towards the service elevator I’d broken into earlier. Sophia caught up with me, and kept pace very well. I was pleased with her lack of heavy breathing. She even had enough air to ask, “So what’s this about a lake?”

“There’s… I think it’s a lake. It’s a lake, but also a door?” I floundered. “Well, whatever it is, it leads somewhere, and there’s something in the somewhere that I need to hunt.”

“Yeah, that… clears it up, thanks. What are you hunting?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember it.”

“Uh huh. And… why are you hunting something you don’t even know about?”

“Not sure. But it needs to die.”

“Hebert, do you have any idea what you sound like right now?”

I scowled at her. “It needs to die, whatever it is. I want this whole thing to stop, but I don’t think it’s going to until I’ve run out of beasts to hunt.” That quieted her, at least for a few minutes, as we focused on keeping our footing on the overgrown path.

“And what’s this ‘whole thing’ you’re trying to stop?” Well, the quiet was nice while it lasted. To be fair to her, it was a good question. Few people wanted to speak about the Hunt, it seemed, and when they did there were always things behind their words. Arianna had sounded like sleepless nights, listening at the door for scratches. The blind beggar’s reedy laugh held the sting of flagellation, penance for something that I couldn’t name. Djura was thick with the taste of ash and regret, though I’d expected that one. Master Valtr and Alfred had been cheerful enough about it, both of them buoyed by righteous purpose.

It was Gehrman whose words disturbed me the most. There was something deep there, something secretive. In all the bright silver light of the Dream, Gehrman’s words held the cold of a new moon, a night blacker and darker than any other. I fancied I could feel it spinning, feel the meaning I was searching for creeping through the sky with the lunar cycle.

“Hebert? Earth to Hebert?” I blinked, catching sight of Sophia staring at me.

“I’m trying to stop a lot of things,” I settled on. “Stop the Hunt, kill a few dreams… see if morning ever comes. That sort of thing.”

“...great.” She said, and turned her eyes from me.

 

We descended into the woods proper, and found something to take Sophia’s mind off her questions. I’d skipped around most of this path, having bested the lock on the door to the old cargo elevator, so this place was more or less new to me as well. I eyed the foliage until the faint lines of <Impurity> became clear, then changed direction and marched into the underbrush to follow them. From the looks of the moss-chewed remains of cabins and lean-tos, some intrepid citizens had tried to hide from the plague by taking up residence in the forest. It didn’t seem to have helped. I gave Sophia a quick push on the shoulder and told her to clear out the encampment.

“We’re going to kill them?” She asked, then got a better look at our quarry. Her voice grew strained. “Jesus, what’s wrong with them?”

“They’re transforming into beasts. They need to be put down before they get really dangerous-- you should know this already. Now get to it.”

I saw her mouth the word ‘transforming,’ then she steeled herself and, with a bit of effort, unfolded her rifle spear. The heavy armament was unwieldy to her yet, that much was clear, but as she got to work her past experience showed through. Wards in the Bay got quite the workout, and her power let her flicker and dodge about more quickly than the stretched-limbed farmers. She made a better showing than I did when I’d first come to Yharnam, at any rate.

I stepped in when a further-degenerated beastman came to join the fray, and once I’d slit his belly and he’d stopped moving, I dug a few vials of blood from my coat and passed them to the panting Sophia. She eyed the simmering red, and I couldn’t tell if she looked at them with want, or horror.

“Nothing you haven’t seen before, right?” I smiled. “We’ll see how thick your blood is, later. Drink up, Sophia.”

 

* * *

 

We picked our way through the forest, <Impurity> guiding me to more clusters of the beastmen, who yelled and cursed and brandished their rakes and makeshift weapons as we fell upon them. Sophia glanced at me, from time to time, but she didn’t speak up again until we reached a low wall near the remains of a garden patch, beyond which lay more of the shacks. Sophia crouched near it for the cover, peeked above to get the lay of the land, and after a moment turned to regard me.

“Hebert,” she whispered. “That’s a village.”

“I can see that.” She wanted to be stealthy. I lowered my voice to indulge her.

“We’re going around, then?”

“No.”

“What, you-- I think I can see a few sleeping, Hebert.”

“Makes our job easier then, doesn’t it?”

She stared at me for a long moment. “Let’s go around, Hebert.”

I tilted my head at her, just slightly. What was her problem?

“Hebert, there’s-- you don’t just barge into people’s homes and kill them.”

“Of course not. That would be very rude.” I said, and listened to her relieved exhale. “So it’s a good thing they’re not people, isn’t it?”

She tensed, and I crouched down next to her. I put out my hand and put light pressure on her chin, turning her towards me more fully. “Getting cold feet?” I murmured.

“Course not, I--”

“Good. Because we’re not going around. We are going through, always through, and we leave nothing behind. Got it?”

“...yeah, I got it.” My fingers twitched, tightening my grip, and she smothered a wince. “I got it,” she repeated. I let her go, and stood. She followed.

“A Hunter must hunt,” I told her. “They must hunt beasts. These are beasts. They’ll prey on people, hurt them, eat at them. Biting and clawing. Sound familiar?”

I heard her breath catch. Good, she did remember. So did I. “You don’t want to be a beast anymore, do you? But you’re not a normal person, Sophia. You have to prey on something, don’t you?”

“That’s not-- it’s not the same, Hebert.”

“It is now.” I leaned in slightly, and she leaned away. “So-- if you won’t be a beast, you’ll have to be a Hunter. And a Hunter. Must. Hunt.”

She gripped her rifle spear a bit tighter, and edged around me towards the low gate of the crumbling wall. “Fuckin’ maniac.” I heard her mutter.

“Remember to check _every_ hut.” I told her.

 

 

The shantytown village made Sophia seethe, or at least it did after she found the cannon. The darkened, overgrown paths past that were happy to eat her anger and leave only anxiety. The infested men disturbed her, it seemed, and that was a healthy disgust to keep so I said nothing. It was only after she’d perished twice to the same patrol, only for me to retreat, recall her, and set her against them again that her rage bubbled back up. Oscillating between fear and anger so often must have been exhausting. I usually just picked one and stuck with it.

I was currently stuck with impatience. I wanted to rush ahead, cut my way through the undergrowth of Byrgenwerth and peel away its secrets. I wanted to rush behind, go back to the chapel and check on the heroes. I wanted to rush even further, to go back to the Dream and question Gehrman, see if I couldn’t pin down some of these thoughts, and understand them. I wanted to go crawl into a grave, and dig deeper until I found the dream that Amygdala was hiding in.

But fools rush in. And whatever else I might be, I was no fool. Sophia could be useful to me, if she was armed and compliant. Was it distasteful, to keep her with me? I wasn’t sure. Her presence was practical, and could be helpful if I could restrain my impatience long enough for her to find her footing… but, reasonable as that was, the thoughts rang hollow. Excuses, covering for things I didn’t care to admit to.

We reached the bottom of the forest’s cliff, our shoes growing sodden from the collected puddles and mud that lined the ground. Byrgenwerth was ahead, and with our goal finally close it was easier to set aside my frustrations. I moved closer to Sophia and stretched out one hand, placing it on her shoulder and gripping it. She tensed, turning her head to watch me, and I eased my grip a little and gave her a pat instead.

“Good work, Sophia.” I smiled, hoping the expression would reach my eyes and offer her some encouragement. If anything she tensed further. “Gets a bit easier the more you do it. Killing, I mean. So, don’t worry…”

I stepped around her, taking point once again. A quick flick-snap of my wrist and my saw extended, its razor teeth adding a pleasing profile to my dim shadow.

“You’ll be a natural in no time.”

 

 


End file.
